There and Back Again: a Tale of Dwarves and Dragon Riders
by Ragnarok shaolin
Summary: He had done it. Galbatorix was no more. But six words on one side, and twelve on the other, twist the Dragon Rider's destiny in ways even he could not dream of. A world, similar yet different. A world where he is needed once more. A world called Middle-Earth.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! I had reservations about putting two stories up at once, but screw it! Here's another one!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit or the Inheritance Cycle. Those go to J. R. R. Tolkien and Christopher Paolini. Have fun with this one!**

Prologue

" _Tolo, Eragon. Neledho Arda, a berio i aimlyg. Naw i amarth lín._ _"_

Galbatorix staggered, hands clutching his temples, as every action he had ever committed ran before his mind's eye. And he _understood_ them.  
"What have you done!"  
"Made you understand." Eragon panted, Brisingr hanging weakly by his side, as he clutched the wound in his abdomen, crimson blood flowing freely through the silver chainmail. With an almighty crash, Shruikan's head and torso collapsed onto the ground, the last light draining from his one blue eye, _Du Niernan_ protruding from his other eye socket, where Arya had stabbed it. Saphira was on the verge of unconsciousness, the exhaustion clear in her movements as she weakly padded over to Eragon's side.  
' _Shall we, little one?_ '  
' _We shall._ '  
There were no words, no speeches. Eragon simply raised Brisingr, and cut cleanly through Galbatorix's neck. But in the sparse seconds before the cold steel cut the usurper's windpipe, he cried six words.  
" _Eitha thornessa ília, un nae kausta!_ "  
Swirling light and darkness surrounded the pair, as the king's head fell from his body, blocking dragon and rider from sight, and cleared, revealing empty space where the pair had stood, just a moment before, as the king's head fell to marble, a triumphant smile even in death.

 **Okay, okay, a fairly normal intro. I'll save you the trouble of translating the Sindarin and the Ancient language, because if some of you try, it might get hairy. Sindarin is horrible. I had to imply things with the Ancient Language statement, as well.**

" _Tolo, Eragon. Neledho Arda,a berio i i amarth lín._ _": "Come, Eragon. Enter Middle-Earth, and save the dragons. It is your destiny."_  
" _Eitha thornessa ília, un nae kausta!_ ": Leave this place (Galbatorix means 'this place of existence', i.e, this reality) and never return (lit. come, implying a reversal of the spell)

 **Now that's out of the way, don't worry about the limited amount. I have the next chapter in near-completion, so it shouldn't be very long (not getting your hopes up, but it might be today) until _that's_ out.  
See you around!**


	2. Chapter 2: A Wizard's Discovery

**Hey guys! I'm** _ **baaaaack!**_ **Here's the next chapter!  
First things first: I do **_**not**_ **own The Hobbit or the Inheritance Cycle, Tolkien and Paolini do.**

* * *

Chapter 1

Eragon opened his eyes, before the pounding inside his skull forced them shut, and he remained thus for another minute, until his headache had reduced sufficiently that he could see without setting off another round of pain.

First and foremost, he looked around for Saphira, but relaxed when he saw her, similarly unconscious, lying next to him. The next thing to draw his attention was the deep sword thrust in his side, where Murtagh had pierced his chainmail.

Healing the wound with magic, he sighed in relief as flesh knitted itself back together, and lay back down on the ground, remaining thus until he felt a small, clandestine presence sneaking its way into his mind. Erecting impenetrable barriers, he locked down the presence and held it in a death grip.

' _Who are you, to wander through the mind of an elf?'_ Eragon demanded, but softened his grip as the voice replied with equal force. _  
_

 _'Be careful of who you speak to, my dear fellow. One would think you had not met an Istar.'_ The voice held power, but the tone was friendly enough, and he could not feel any maliciousness in the man's mind, and so he released his grip on the Istar (the word was unfamiliar).

His attention caught on the sight in front of him. Squatting on a rock was an old man, clad in a grey cloak, with a pointed grey hat, a long white beard spooling down his chest. Clamped firmly between his teeth was the stem of a smoking pipe, and multi-coloured smoke was dancing into the air.

'A _magician, then. Perhaps that is what 'Istar' means. But he seems too old. He can't be an elf. None, not even Gilderien, looked as wizened as him._ '

"Well then, friend, which are you? Elf or Sindar?" The old man asked amicably in the same voice, the words obscured slightly by the pipe clasped between his lips.

"Elf. And you?" Eragon decided to play it safe, and not reveal he was also half-human. He had no idea what 'Sindar' meant, but, just as the Ancient Language rung with its own meaning, so did that word. It was not of the Ancient Language, but whatever language it was shared similar properties.

"Well, there's a question you would never catch an elf asking. You, sir, are no Quendi I have ever met. It is not every day I find one of your kind who hasn't heard of the Grey Pilgrim." The man chuckled throughout, the light twinkling in his eyes as he observed the elf before him.

"Just as you are no man I have ever met. You speak as if you know them well. Islanzadí would have mentioned you, if you were so well known among our kind. Elf-friends are few and far between." Eragon replied uncertainly. There was something about this man. Something… off. He didn't feel completely human.

The being's ears perked up with the words with the Ancient Language.

"I neither know what the meanings of the words of your language are, nor that name, but they ring in my ears and resonate in my being like the words I use. I am afraid I must press you for details now. Pray, tell me, sir, what your name is?"

"Eragon. Son of Brom."  
The being frowned. Neither of those were names he knew. But those words… they held power, more so than the words he used.

"And yours?"

The old man returned his gaze to the elf in front of him.

"Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey. But that is one of many." He replied, all the more eager to figure out Eragon's tale. One does not turn up with a wound like that, in full armour, with a sword of such fine make, along with a dragon.

"It seems we are on common ground there, Gandalf- _elda_. Many know me as Shadeslayer, or Argetlam. I am a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, the fire smith clan. And _this"_ Eragon patted Saphira's flank gently, "is Saphira, my dragon." Gandalf just shook his head in amusement.

"I know not what land you hail from, Eragon, but dragons here are raging beasts. They care for naught but gold and treasure, more so than their kin."

"They are not true dragons, then. The dragons of my homeland were prideful, certainly, but also wise, intelligent and caring for their kith and kin. They needed no ornamentation. Saphira is the living example. I am sure you two will get along when she awakes. I think she is still waiting for someone to give her a good game of riddles after Orik."

"If that is what she wants, she will be sorely disappointed if she thinks she can win." Gandalf chuckled, for his skills at the ancient game were legendary, before once again frowning. "Who is this…? Orik? The name sounds dwarvish."

"You guess right. My foster brother, and king of the dwarves." Gandalf, who had been drawing deeply from his pipe, began spluttering. Eragon was at first alarmed, but then realised the wizard had descended into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, there's a tale to tell. An elf, the foster brother of a dwarf? And a dwarf king, no less? I never thought I would see the day."  
Gandalf guffawed, beating the palm of his free hand against his leg in merriment. However, his tone grew sombre once more, and the light dimmed somewhat in his eyes.

"You speak of the dragons as if they are gone, Eragon. Did they die?"

"They were killed. All of them save two, and three eggs." Eragon's own expression sobered.  
"One, our old mentor, and the other, the dragon of the usurper who killed the rest. They are both dead now. Saphira hatched from one of those eggs, and another hatched during the war."

"So similar… could it be?" Gandalf muttered to himself, ignoring Eragon's presence as his mind worked to unravel the mysteries intertwined before his eyes like a nest of writhing eels. His gaze shot up though, as the mind processed that Eragon had said 'war'.

"You speak of conflict. What happened?"

For the next few hours Eragon related his entire story, from Saphira's appearance, to the storming of Urû'baen, and Gandalf was thoroughly engrossed throughout. Gandalf interrupted, with no small amount of surprise, when he found out that the dragons of Alagaësia spoke through mind instead of speech(it seemed that that was not normal for this land, Eragon noted), and peppered Eragon on how magic worked in the Rider's home country, possibly filing away all the tales he had been told him to use them at a later date.

By the end, Eragon could see the wizard recasting his gaze along his body, aligning the information he had received with the Dragon Rider in front of him.  
"A tremendous tale, to be sure. You have seen more than most on Arda. That is for certain. Few could claim to be of such a level of skill, or have experienced such horrors at such an age."  
Eragon blushed slightly with the praise, before meeting the wizard's eyes again, isolating the unknown word.

"Arda? What is that?" Eragon asked, puzzled by the odd name. Gandalf chuckled behind his pipe

"My dear fellow, the very rock you sit upon is Arda. It is our name for this world." His eyes glazed over, as if remembering something. "This land we sit on is called Middle-Earth, but there are many more. We are currently on the edge of what the locals call 'the Shire'."

Saphira chose that moment to wake up, lifting her sapphire head to find Eragon, but just lowered it back to her forepaws when she saw him.

' _Saphira? Are you all right?'  
'Ach. I feel like after I drank that mead in Farthen Dûr. This headache is horrible. Who is the old man?'_

 _'He calls himself Gandalf. A wizard, I would wager. He was doing things with pipe-smoke that reminded me of Brom.'_

 _'Hpmh. Either way, find out what he wants, and tell me once I've woken up.'_ And with that, she settled back down to sleep. Gandalf chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Eragon. But being this close to a dragon, and finding out she's no more aggressive than most men I know, is somewhat…disconcerting. It seems I won't be having that game of riddles, though. She looks quite tired. Perhaps later." Gandalf replied amusedly, and returned to smoking his pipe.

"Don't underestimate her. She just doesn't consider you a threat. If you tried to attack me, though, you would be dead quicker than you could cast any sort of magic." Eragon replied nonchalantly, adding the veiled threat in his voice to make it clear neither of them were to be trifled with. Gandalf, however, was well aware this, and just smiled mysteriously back at him.

"You figured that out, then?"

"It wasn't hard."

"Hm." Gandalf got himself to his feet, "Whichever way it shall be, _we_ should be off. I have somewhere to be, and you" he pointed, a sudden layer of gravity in his tone "have a choice to make. Either you flee to parts uninhabited, or you stay with me. There are very many in this land that would not take kindly to a dragon stealing their livestock." The stony voice passed as quickly as it came, leaving the wizard's eyes twinkling in the evening light.

' _Saphira? What should we do?'_

 _'Why do you ask me, Eragon? It is your choice to make. I will not argue with you, whatever you decide. I think, though, it would be better to stay with Gandalf for the moment. I am tired of running.'_

Eragon sighed, staring back at her, weighing up the choices. On one hand, he trusted Gandalf, for the little time he had known him, and he certainly seemed powerful. However, he was hesitant to throw himself into the wizard's affairs.

' _Perhaps it would be best for now.'_

 _"_ I will stay with you for now. But first, you must answer me this: What is it that makes you so eager to keep me within sight?"

A raised eyebrow was his only response to that question.

"You will see, Eragon. All I shall say on the matter for now is that it involves dwarves, and many of them. I hope you are used to the idea of a quest." Gandalf's previous humour had returned, and the old man swung round, walking at pace towards what looked like a cart. Smiling to himself, Eragon gazed at the horizon.

' _How_ do _we get ourselves in these situations?'_

 _'You mean, how do_ I _get myself in these situations, little one.'_

He grinned at that, tickling her behind the ear. She snorted, shaking her head away, an amused glint in her eye.

' _You should probably go now. Gandalf seems to be getting impatient.'_

He nodded in agreement, instead scratching her quickly once more, and then ran over to cart.

' _Stay safe, little one.'_

 _'I love you too, Saphira.'_

* * *

 **So? How was it?  
Getting this out of the way right now: according to the Tolkien mythology, upon the subject of magic, every conscious and sentient being in Middle-Earth has the ability to be a Mind-breaker(Paolini's term for those who can infiltrate other's mind and keep other Mind-breakers out), so it makes sense if Gandalf can do it.  
Also, Tolkien is a bit vague about the line between magic and divine acts (from Eru Ilúvatar (basically God, his name literally means ‚the one father of all'. How much more explicit can you get!) Or the Ainur (Valar and Maiar)). Most of the inhabitants of Middle-Earth group it all together, both good and evil (the interaction between Sam Gamgee and Galadriel in LOTR is a good illustration of this point), but ‚magic'is generally attributed to the Istarí (think Gandalf and Saruman), as sorcery like that is the first thing that comes to mind when one says ‚magic', but it also encompasses Elrond and Glorfindel's healing talents and Galadriel's foresight. Tolkien is complicated.  
On a completely separate note; remember when I said Eragon felt like Gandalf wasn't completely human? Yes, there's a canon reason for that: the Istarí are actually select Maiar, or spirits one step down on the proverbial ladder from the Valar (Fun fact: Sauron himself is actually a Maia! Who would have guessed!), who had been chosen by the Valar to travel to Middle-Earth and assume human form to provide help to the other races.  
Well, that's all from me in the Explanation department. Let's see how Thorin and Eragon get along next chapter!  
**


	3. Chapter 3: Of false faces and dragons

**Hey guys! Here's the next chapter! I have a few of these stockpiled, 'cause I want to finish my other story soon, and it is getting really time-consuming.  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit or the Inheritance Cycle**

Chapter 2

Eragon looked around in bemusement at the houses around him. Unlike anything he had seen, they were built _into_ the hill, and not on top of it. These 'hobbits' Gandalf had talked about were definitely small. The circular doors were shorter than him by a long way. One door in particular, however, caught his attention. For in front of that door was rabble of short, bearded dwarves rattling the doorknob, while a rune scratched in the wood glowed ethereal blue. Eragon had stowed Brisingr and his armour in Gandalf's cart, who had convinced him that no-one would dare go peeking through its contents; everyone in the Shire knew not to get on Gandalf's bad side, and peeking in his cart was one of the quickest ways to do that. Eragon had strapped his old hunting knife to his right leg, though, just in case.  
Quietly, he and Gandalf snuck up just behind the conglomeration of writhing, stocky bodies, just as the heavy door swung backwards, admitting them onto the clean carpet inside. Eragon's gaze found the one who had opened it, and saw a fair-haired, short hobbit, dressed in a patchwork dressing-gown, his feet bare, but coated with a thick layer of hair. The same's mouth twisted momentarily in amused displeasure when Gandalf poked his head through the low opening, but just went slack when his eyes found Eragon, who was smiling at the antics emerging in front of him as the dwarves struggled to fix their current predicament and find the fastest route to the pantry, in the case of the massive one with the looped-braid beard (Bombur, he would later find out). The hobbit promptly shut his gaping mouth, and refocused on the wizard in front of him.  
"Gandalf. I knew you had something to do with this, but really, you didn't tell me an elf was tagging along for the ride?"  
"My apologies, Bilbo, but Eragon here, _somehow_ " he shot an annoyed look at the half-elf across from him, whose smile turned sheepish "found out our little gathering here, and wanted in. Tongue of silver, this one." Eragon just placed one hand on the doorframe as he laughed at Gandalf's tongue-in-cheek moanings. They had gone over many things on the cart-ride over, like the general history of Middle-Earth, as they worked out a persona for Eragon to hide behind from the dwarves, who would be suspicious of him from the get-go. Such things, however, had not included the tactics Gandalf would be using to draw away the dwarves' attention, and so Eragon was currently making merry at the expense of those remarks. Several of the dwarves, who had managed to extricate themselves from the pile in front of him, turned around at the mockingbird laughter behind them, and turned tomato-red, their ruddy cheeks blushing furiously at their ignorance of the elf behind them, thinking he had been laughing at their predicament, and muttered curses into their beards.  
"Yes well, that's all well and good, but there are _dwarves_ in my dining room, and the state of the pantry!" Bilbo shouted at the air, not really aiming his words at anyone.  
"If it is not too much trouble, Bilbo, would you please help our acquaintances here" Gandalf gestured to the pile of dwarves on the floor "into the house. It is getting rather chilly out here."  
"Hmm? Of course, of course! Come on in, Gandalf." Bilbo invited the wizard in, but muttered under his breath, "You might as well, if the rest are."  
"Be careful, Master Bilbo. Some might think the _legendary_ hospitality of the hobbits was but a myth." Eragon whispered in the hobbit's ear amusedly as he passed, and Bilbo's eyebrows slanted dangerously, a thunderstorm brewing on the tip of his tongue, and he whirled around to give Eragon a good piece of his mind, elf or not, but stopped at the sight in front of him. The dwarves were grabbing food from the pantry left, right and centre, picking up fruit, vegetables, confitures, meats and many other items. Bombur was walking past with three whole rolls of cheese, as wide around as he was, no cheese knife in sight, to the table which the dwarves had constructed from the assortment of furniture in the hobbit's dining room. Most of the dwarves were ignoring Eragon's presence in the doorway, simply too engrossed in their tasks of fetching food and chairs.  
' _They are a lot like the ones in Alaga_ _ë_ _sia, are they not, little one? Scurrying around like ants, continually busy.'_ Saphira remarked as she slept on the outskirts of Hobbiton, watching the goings-on through Eragon's eyes.  
' _True enough, that, though don't say that to their faces, Saphira. Just like Orik, I don't think they would take it kindly.'_ his thoughts turned sour. It frustrated him, not knowing how the battle had fared without him. Their leader had been killed, but another could easily take over. And now, there was no other female dragon to resurge the dragon race.  
 _'We have discussed this, little one. Do not distress yourself on my account.'_ ' _But there, there was a chance. Here_ … _there is none. We will not survive long enough, if at all, to return. The dragons will become extinct. No one knows of the eggs on Vroengard, and our travel separated us from the eldunarí. I fear for the safety and state of Alagaësia.'_ ' _Do not fear for them now. I, too, am worried, but survive this trial first, and then can we turn our efforts to a method of return.'_ Their mental conversation was interrupted bycheering from the dining hall, where the dwarves had settled down and were grabbing food from the table, and throwing it over their heads, daring the others to catch it out of the air with their mouths. Bombur, of course, held the record. Fili stepped up onto the table and walked down its length, passing out ales to his fellows. Dwalin decided to have some fun and poured Oín's ale down his ear-trumpet, who blew down it and splashed the assortment of dwarves. The rest toasted and drank heartily from their tankards, rivulets of the golden liquid running through the beards and staining their clothes.  
' _Atrocious table manners, though. Even the dwarves in Tarnag weren't this bad at the feast with that Nagra.'_ Saphira sniffed, secretly amused by the difference. _  
'Worse than yours?'_ Eragon replied cheekily, and received a resounding mental _thwack_ for his remark. The dwarves chose that moment to start a belching contest, and Saphira stopped berating her rider to disconnect her sense of smell from Eragon's, as foul odours were wafting through the doorway towards him. Finishing that, some of them left the dining room, walking around the house a bit to relieve possible indigestion, while an unlucky Nori was getting berated by a severely annoyed Bilbo for using a doily as a dishcloth. The hobbit was, by now, completely fed up with the dwarves and their lack of niceties, and Eragon could hear Bilbo muttering "Bother and confusticate these dwarves!" across the room.  
"My dear Bilbo, what on earth is the matter?" Gandalf, stooping through another low doorway, enquired in his most grandfatherly tone.  
"What's the matter?" Bilbo replied, before Eragon tuned out the rant that Bilbo then put the elderly wizard through, chuckling to himself all the while, drawing a few odd looks from the dwarves around him, but no more. They didn't know much about him, but they were prepared to put up with him if Gandalf had brought him here, even if they distrusted him on the basis that he was an elf. By the time the dwarves had finished their song about breaking plates and chipping glass, much to Bilbo's horror, as they put away the cutlery into their proper places, Eragon was shaking with pent-up laughter through the entire proceedings.  
' _Noisy and disgarding of rules and common courtesy.'_ Eragon noted _'Where have they been living, if this is the norm? A hole in the ground?'_  
' _Perhaps they have been driven from their homes, and are nomads now. That would be feasible.'_ Saphira suggested in their shared space, knowing very well that the evacuation of Farthen Dûr mirrored this.  
' _Could they have been attacked by Orcs? Goblins? The mines are full of them.'  
'Only Moria has such an infestation, little one, and that was abandoned long ago, according to Gandalf. These dwarves look too young, though if our dwarves are anything to go by, they could be well into humans 'adulthood', and still look like children.'  
_Eragon was thrust from his musings as knocking filled the house once again, and he walked calmly to the door. As the entrance swung open, he saw a dwarf, clad in a dark-blue travelling cloak, his black hair braided down his head, a fur-lined cloak poking out above a woven jacket. He carried himself nobly, with an air of vanity, but the demeanour of a warrior was clear on him. His face, prideful and brave, carried hints at seeing horrifying events, especially the eyes. When Thorin Oakenshield laid eyes on the elf in the doorway, his lips pursed in a scowl.  
"Get out of my way, _elf_." Thorin spat venomously at Eragon, who leant one arm on the door's edge and smiled mischievously.  
"Or what?" the dragon rider shot back, amused by the dwarf's temperament. Gandalf hadn't been kidding when he said elves and dwarves didn't get on.  
"I have no time to be playing games with wood-folk. Move aside." Thorin's voice, admirably, did not raise, though the venom in his tone only became more potent, and Eragon decided not to push his luck, moving aside with an exaggerated bow to admit the dwarven prince (Eragon already knew this from Gandalf's descriptions of the company he would be in when they arrived), and leant against the curving wooden wall as Thorin genially greeted the aging wizard of their group, and Bilbo was introduced. None too secretly, Thorin pulled Gandalf aside out of what he thought was Eragon's range of hearing (though he was wrong), and proceeded to question Gandalf as to the existence of an _elf_ in the house, to which Gandalf gave ambiguous answers that neither angered or appeased the dwarf. With no answers and even more questions, Thorin and company filed into the now-cramped dining room, while Eragon stood in the entrance-way, observing the social interactions of the folk in front of him. Currently, the other dwarves were peppering Thorin with questions on the success of his travels to what Eragon assumed were other dwarf clans, his answers clearly cutting that they were the only group attempting the venture they had gathered to discuss. Most of this he ignored, but his interest was piqued when Gandalf brought out a square of battered parchment, most likely a map.  
"Far to the east…over ranges and rivers…beyond woodlands and wastelands…lies a single, solitary peak." Gandalf slowly unfolded the parchment, revealing a map (for that was what it was) showing a single mountain, with runes and writing covering most of the empty parts. Eragon could make out the runes at that distance, but they were of a different alphabet, and therefore held no meaning to him. Bilbo, however, clearly could read them, and did, once he had retrieved a candle for Gandalf, who had requested more light.  
"'The Lonely Mountain'." the hobbit read uncertainly, the candlelight flickering, revealing parts and obscuring others.  
"Aye, Oín has read the portents…and the portents say it is time. Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold: 'When the birds of yore return to Erebor...the reign of the beast will end.'  
Now the dwarves had Eragon's full attention. If such a thing had been prophesised… it could only be of the highest importance to them. Prophecies were meant to be taken seriously, after all. All the parts of his had come true, in one way or another. Gandalf however, had heard this all before, and was lighting his pipe with his finger, and gave Eragon a sly wink for giving him the idea.  
' _He wouldn't have thought of that if I hadn't told him our tale. I wonder what else he picked up on.'_ The elf reflected as the conversation flowed between the assembled beings of shorter stature around the table, the topic now turning to the topic of dragons; in particular, Smaug.  
"...chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals."  
"Yes, I know what a dragon is, thank you." Bilbo cut in, using irritation to hide the fear he was feeling at that time. Dragons were not something to be taken lightly, after all, even for hobbits, who lived without fear for their safety from the wyrms.  
"Do you, Master Bilbo?" Eragon, who had more collective experience than the lot of them when it came to dragons, decided it was the right moment to properly insert himself into the conversation, despite Gandalf's warnings of staying as far away from the topic as possible.  
"What you say, Master Bofur, is correct, certainly, but you have not touched upon the subject of the dragon's _cunning._ One must know and plan what he will do with such weapons. What use are claws and teeth like that if one does not know how to use them, after all?"  
' _Well said, Eragon.'_ Gandalf commented quietly inside the rider's mind.  
All the dwarves, who had forgotten Eragon's presence in the room, turned to face him, and Thorin gave him a particularly cruel smile.  
"And what would an elf know of this matter? All you do is hide in your woodland realms, waiting for evil to find you, before you batter it back towards the other parts of this land. You do not seek it out; destroy it. _That_ is the purpose of our quest. We know what that dragon has done; it drove us from Erebor 150 years ago. We are to reclaim what is rightfully ours."  
"And what gave you the idea that all elves are the same, Thorin? The mantra of 'Seen one, seen them all' breeds only dissent. Why do you think we elves and you dwarves are at each other's throats all the time?" Eragon shot back. It seemed that the enmity between the two races here rivalled the hatred Az Sweldn rak Anhûin had had for him under Vermûnd. He would not be surprised if Thorin initiated a blood feud there and then, if such things happened in Middle-Earth.  
"Enough of your half-riddles and vague remarks, elf! Give us a straight answer, or leave this house. You had no place in this quest to begin with, and I would be damned if I start making allowances now!" Thorin's restraint dissipated like mist in the fierce sunlight, and he began shouting at the elf, all inhibitions gone.  
"You would be wise to find out to whom you speak, Thorin Oakenshield." Eragon's temper began to fray as the anger inside him chewed on it like a dog on a bone. "You want my name? Fine. I am Eragon _dagniraimlyg_. I have walked Middle-Earth since Sauron's defeat at the hands of Isildur. I saw Isildur cut the ring from Sauron's hand. I fought upon those blackened plains under Gil-Galad and Elendil. I committed myself to the defeat of those _wyrms,_ servant of darkness or not, ever since the day I could leave Elrond's house. They are an abomination on this land, and I will see them extinct before it is my time to pass into the Undying Lands. Gandalf brought me here because I alone have the one thing all of you lack: experience. Even you, Thorin, do not have the means to slay that fire-wyrm, though you may know the way. _I,_ however, can." Eragon had to force the words out, unbelieving that he was actually saying this as an elf. It went against every fibre of his being. The dwarves, however, were shocked by the revelation that the elf in their presence was of such an age, and his title. Thorin alone seemed unconvinced, but he held his tongue, and returned his attention to the table he sat at, where they continued to debate how to get into the mountain and their goals. Eragon fell into meditative silence, until his mental rest was disturbed by a tapping on his arm. Looking down, he saw Bilbo standing there, gazing up at him with reverence.  
"Yes, Master Bilbo?"  
"How many have you killed, then? Your title is 'slayer of _dragons_ '. But how many is that?" The hobbit asked, genuinely curious as to the achievements of what he saw as an ancient being.  
"So many I have lost count. There has been often a time when I lament the loss of life. Terrible calamities or not, the dragons were proud and strong, and would have been a great force for good if they had not followed Morgoth." The lights dimmed inside the house, and Gandalf glanced sharply at the dragon rider for uttering _that_ black name in such an untainted place. Eragon just placed his palms up and forwards in a calming gesture. The wizard seemed placated by that, and returned to the conversation around the table, retrieving an odd key from the folds of his robes and placing it where all the dwarves could see it. Interest reignited around it, and the dwarves' movements held new excitement and hope. Their attention turned to Bilbo, and they questioned him on his validity as a thief (Gandalf had given the dwarves the impression that he would be providing a top-notch cat-burglar to retrieve the Arkenstone when they arrived.) They presented the confused Bilbo with the contract, waiting for him to sign and agree upon it. Unfortunately for them, whereupon the hobbit reached the clause about non-liability for any injuries received, he fainted (incineration and hobbits didn't seem to mix was Eragon's thought on the matter), and the two non-dwarves among them had to carry him into his living-room and sit him in the armchair, waiting for Bilbo to regain consciousness. He did, and Eragon left Gandalf to work his magic (figuratively, of course) of persuading the Baggins to join their little quest. Unfortunately for the wizard, Bilbo's stubbornness surpassed even Eragon's, who had thoroughly frustrated the wizard as he attempted to persuade the rider to join his cause, and he declined graciously, walking away into the depths of his winding home. Eragon, who had been listening to the conversation, picked up another one, further along the corridor, between two of the dwarves.  
"It appears we have lost our burglar. Probably for the best. The odds were always against us." He heard Balin comment to Thorin. "After all, what are we? Merchants, miners…tinkers, toy-makers. Heh, heh. Hardly the stuff of legend."  
"There are a few warriors amongst us." Thorin replied.  
"Old warriors." The older dwarf clarified, the ghost of a smile upon his lips.  
"I would take each and every one of these Dwarves…" Thorin looked over his shoulder at them, sitting in the house "over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honour…a willing heart. I can ask no more than that."  
' _He is certainly royalty, little one. He knows the hardships of being one who leads.'_ Saphira, who had reconnected her sight with his, projected in his mind.  
"You don't have to do this. You have a choice. You've done honourably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains. A life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor." Balin, it seemed, had reservations about this plan, and decided it was time to voice them. A brave one, he was.  
"From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me." Thorin held up that silver key in front of Balin's nose.  
' _There is always a choice, Thorin. You just need to know where to look.'_ Eragon thought to himself. Somehow the dwarven prince was taking the idea of destiny too far.  
"Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done." The elder dwarf acquiesced, and they walked into the living room, where the rest of the company was assembled, facing a roaring fire. By nobody's signal, the dwarves laid down a mournful humming, and Thorin began singing.  
"Far over the misty mountains cold,  
To dungeons deep and caverns old,  
We must away 'ere break of day  
To find our long-forgotten gold."  
Eragon, with that mournful tune, decided to augment it with one of his own. It rung with him, resonated, reminding him of the hardships he had endured throughout his struggle. The two melodies wound around each other, reciprocating and embellishing the other. One of loss, the other grief; one of fire, the other water; one of elves, the other dwarves; one of the Ancient Language, the other common tongue; one of Alagaësia, the other Middle-Earth.  
"The pines were roaring on the height…"  
" _O Durnareyna undir himmen bár…_ "  
"The winds were moaning in the night…"  
" _Onr vídhra kulsja kalla edtha, kalla edtha…_ "  
"The fire was red, it flaming spread…"  
" _Ae eka wilae sigla, mae thar er älfa-konu…_ ,"  
"The trees like torches, blazed with light."  
" _Du kallas edtha, kallas edtha…_ "  
"Far over the misty mountains grim…"  
" _Älfrinn binna hjarta iet medh leya…_ "  
"To dungeons deep and caverns dim…"  
" _Hvitr aí lois nae eom waíse jierdaí…_ "  
"We must away 'ere break of day…"  
" _Aíran maru aegó ae eom waíse…_ "  
"To win our harps and gold from him!"  
" _Rífaí midhli traevam un sjór_."

 **So? What do you think so far? All the exciting stuff isn't really going to kick off until the trolls come into play, but** _ **boy,**_ **it is going to kick off after that.  
See you!**


	4. Chapter 4: The quest commences

**Hey Guys! Sorry this one took so long, I was really trying to finish the newest chapter of my other story. No, we aren't getting the trolls this chapter, but it** _ **will**_ **be next chapter. Enjoy!**

Chapter 3

Elf, hobbit, Istar and dwarf remained thus for a good while of the night, the two opposing races singing of their separate lands, as the moon reached its head in the midnight sky, and all declared it was time to set down for the night (apart from Bilbo, who had already fallen asleep, fully clothed, in his four-poster bed). The dwarves took up every available space of Bag-end, even the pantry, in the case of Bombur (he had said he was getting a 'midnight snack' and had drifted off on the floor), while Eragon and Gandalf stayed up a while longer, discussing what they would need to do to keep Saphira secret on their journey, whilst pretending to be asleep. Each then drifted into their separate dreams, Eragon to the phantasms of his waking dreams, and Gandalf to wherever his state of rest took him. Upon the first rays of light filtering through the windows of Bilbo's abode, the two awoke (it seemed as if Gandalf's resting state was similar to Eragon's) and began tidying Bag-end before the dwarves and Bilbo woke up, preparing themselves for the journey ahead. Eragon retrieved Brisingr from Gandalf's cart, along with his armour, which he placed in his pack like he had done when he was sneaking through the Empire with Arya. He spent a good while polishing and cleaning it all with magic, repairing the gash in his chainmail where Murtagh had pierced his side. He finished just as Thorin and one or two others walked into the living room. They were not surprised that Eragon chose to wield a sword, as was the elven custom of Middle Earth, though they were entranced by its workmanship, which soared above and beyond all the dwarven and elven weapons they had seen. They demanded to know who had made it, and Eragon replied in half-truth that he had from brightsteel (It had been his body, but not his experience or mind). The dwarves compared it to a similar sword named Gurthang, forged from meteoric iron, which had killed Glaurung, the first dragon, though the comparison again disturbed him, as he was again reminded of his false identity among them. They largely ignored his bow, though they briefly admired the unbelievable draw-strength, and therefore Eragon's own physical prowess. When they were all ready and accounted for, the company left Bag-end, exiting the Shire and beginning their journey. Dwarves and Istar rode on horse and pony, while Eragon strode alongside them, showing no trace of fatigue from the weight of the sword at his hip, or the armour on his back. Above them, Saphira circled high, appearing as but a bird, tracking their progress and forewarning Eragon of anything on their path. It was in this way that he knew Bilbo was rushing towards them from the way they had come, but held his silence, only turning around when he heard the footsteps of the hobbit behind him. He stopped and turned around, tapping the pommel of Brisingr in mock impatience, shaking his head in amusement at the sight before him. Bilbo stood panting, in front of Balin, who was looking over the contract, inspecting the proper places with a magnifying lens. Happy that everything was as it should be, he rolled up the contract, and welcomed the hobbit in Thorin's company, winking. Rather roughly, Fili and Kili hauled him up onto a pony, and the group resumed their journey, Bilbo sitting on the pack-pony, looking rather miffed.

/

After many interruptions, mainly by Bilbo searching for some item or another, then complaining that he had left it at Bag-End, the group left the furthest reaches of the Shire, and passed beyond them, climbing down cliff-tracks and passing through dense forests. During this journey, Eragon struck up a somewhat friendly conversation with Fili and Kili about the finer points of swordplay, and then got challenged by Balin to game of riddles, which he ignominiously lost.(Balin would forever boast, even in the mines of Moria, that he had beaten an elf at something aside from mining.)

Through valleys, over hills and across rivers the group traversed, putting more distance between them and their starting point and less from their goal. Eventually, they put up camp on a stony ridge overlooking a gorge, and the dwarves lay down to sleep. Bilbo, however, was shaken from sleep by Bombur's earth-rattling snores, and walked over to the horses, observed by Gandalf and Eragon, who were both pretending to keep watch. In reality, Saphira was guarding them from an unseen ledge higher up, and the two were just staring into the distance. Bilbo furtively fed his pony an apple from his pocket, but his attention was drawn away by screeching further down in the gorge.  
"What was that?" he asked. It was plain for all to see that this was new to him, and he was certainly unnerved.  
"Orcs." Came Kili's reply, who had stayed awake around a small fire with his brother.  
"Orcs?" Bilbo replied disbelieving. Orcs were a fairy-tale to most hobbits, a bogeyman; certainly not real. Goblins were real, they knew, but _orcs_? That was unheard of. Thorin was also awoken by the ghastly screams below, and quickly drew his senses to him.  
"Throat-cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there. The lone-lands are crawling with them." Fili piped up, threads of amusement and mischievousness in his voice. He was going to have giving this particular burglar a scare.  
"They strike in the wee small hours when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood." Kili picked up on his brother's fun, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Bilbo's face contorted in shock, and the pair started laughing.  
"You think that's funny? You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?" Thorin interjected, shutting down his nephews' prank to teach them some sense.  
"We didn't mean anything by it."  
"No you didn't." Thorin replied angrily, and stalked off to the precipice, muttering "You know nothing of the world." Balin come over and leant his arm on the rock wall, looking at his two younger kinsmen.  
"Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria."  
Eragon turned his head to look at Thorin for any sign of emotion, and checked the dwarf's mind. Inside, he saw the image of a battle, raging and swirling, dwarves in armour with hexagonal shields and axes battling with malformed, pale monstrosities, clad in leather and wielding curved scimitars. He plunged into the prince's mind, enraptured in horror at the unfolding events, Balin's voice echoing faintly in the background.  
"But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs, led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began, by beheading the king."  
"No!" Eragon heard Thorin's memory cry out, as Azog threw his grandfather's head at his feet. Balin's speech continued, unheeding.  
"Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing. Taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him. A young Dwarf prince facing down the pale Orc." Eragon saw all this unfold, as Azog smote Thorin's shield and weapons from his hands, and kicked him off the ledge, in the chaos below.  
"He stood alone against this terrible foe. His armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield." Eragon saw the Orc bearing down upon him in Thorin's mind's eye, that accursed club biting into the hard wood, and his sword arm severing the Orc's hand from his arm.  
"Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken." Thorin's memory charged, leading ranks of dwarves against the ferocious tide of the defending Orcs, cutting down and slaying the foul creatures, oaken branch still in hand.  
"Our forces rallied and drove the Orcs back." Orc after Orc stepped into Eragon's view, and each was cut down by the bite of the Prince's sword.  
"And our enemy had been defeated." Eragon silently extricated himself from that bloody scene, slipping away like a thief in the night, and returned to his body.  
"But there was no feast, nor song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call king."  
With those poignant words, Thorin turned to face the assembled dwarves, who had all been woken by Balin's tale and were staring at the leader of their company with new-found respect. Even Eragon was seeing the dwarven prince in a new light. To lose his father and grandfather in such a way… no wonder he had seen that sorrow in Thorin's eyes as he opened the door.  
"And the pale Orc? What happened to him?" Bilbo asked, gaze switching between Thorin and Balin, trying to process the information he had just received.  
"He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago." Thorin replied, tone succinct, but venom evident.  
Unbeknownst to all but the bonded pair among them, two Orcs, seated on Wargs, were spying upon the company.

/

"Here, Mr. Gandalf, can't you do something about this deluge?"  
It had been raining for the past three hours, and even Eragon was beginning to feel depressed from the weather. It didn't help that Saphira, who was soaring above the clouds, was being her usual, energetic self, and constantly teasing about the unfortunate state he was in.  
"It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to rain until the rain is done. If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard." Gandalf shot back, false irritation his guise as the horse he was sitting on ploughed through the muddy ground.  
"Are there any?" Bilbo asked curiously. His Took side, which he had repressed for most of his life, was now freely showing, and he was unafraid of saying his mind.  
"What?"  
"Other wizards."  
"There are five of them, Bilbo. In level of respect and age; Saruman the White, Gandalf himself, the Grey, Radagast the Brown, and Morinehtar and Rómestámo the Blue. Each holds a name in Quenya. Gandalf's is Olórin, Saruman's Curumo, Radagast's Aiwendil, Morinehtar's Alatar, and Rómestámo's Pallando."  
"You would be wise not to repeat those names, Eragon. They hold power, more so than most do." Gandalf warned the elf, thinking of the fell creatures that roamed the land and sky, listening for news and looking for unwary travellers to ambush.  
' _I think, Gandalf, you are right, though I have one other name I have not told you about, and it holds more power than even your own.'_ Eragon swung back in the Istar's mind, and Gandalf's lips quirked in amusement.  
"We shall see, Eragon. We shall see."

/

They had travelled a good while longer, until even the rain had stopped, before the first odd event of their journey occurred. Eragon, who had been walking beside Gandalf at the time, opening his senses to admit the information from the forests around him, revelling in the life around him, was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of evil, rushing in, it seemed, from every direction. Images flashed before his eyes; a blue stone, a black blade, a fiery orange eye, slitted; a figure, cast in darkness that made the darkness around him creep away. Fiery letters, rings of burning gold, hooded figures, ghostly images of wraiths hanging above their heads. These and more assaulted his vision, until his body shut down from the onrush, and the dwarves stopped in surprise as he crumpled onto the grass.  
"Eragon? Eragon?! What is it?" the wizard swung off his horse, and cradled the elf's head, as he came back to consciousness.  
"Darkness… so much darkness. A castle… a fortress. Black blades… blacker night. Fiery eye… ever-watching, unblinking. A figure, of whom his very shadow is afraid…letters of fire…wraith…Ring. " Eragon murmured in his stupor, and Gandalf froze with the last word. Surely…it _couldn't_ be.  
' _Eragon! Are you alright? What was that?'_ Eragon grimaced as Saphira's concerned voice rung his head like a gong, only worsening the oncoming headache.  
' _You think_ _ **I**_ _know? I'm still trying to figure it out!'_ He responded, cutting the mental contact to subdue the throbbing in his skull.  
"Eragon, get up." Gandalf shook the elf by the shoulder, concerned of these portents "We need to keep moving. You can rest when we find camp." Gandalf promised, furtively sneaking glances at the now menacing-seeming forest, gently hauled the elf to his feet, and the group resumed, the dwarves whispering amongst themselves as they carried on, unaware of the troubles in their companions' minds.

/

"We'll camp here for the night. Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them. Oín, Gloin. Get a fire going."  
Thorin and the dwarves had decided to set up camp near a destroyed house, and were currently dismounting and unpacking the necessary equipment, whilst Eragon and Gandalf were paying more attention to the state of the dismal building.  
"A farmer and his family used to live here."  
"Aye. And whatever did this had strength. Lots of strength, and rocks." Eragon commented, taking the roof and timbers. It reminded him of the state his own house had been in after the Ra'zac had attacked.  
"What makes you say that, my dear fellow?" Gandalf asked, genuinely curious as to how Eragon could possibly discern that.  
"See the holes in the roof, the depression? Something bigger than the house did that. And given they managed to knock a sizable hole out of the fireplace, I'm guessing a club or thrown rocks. Do you know of any beast in this range that could do this, Mithrandir?" The dragon rider explained, breaking down his observations for the wizard to analyse. Gandalf just grunted amusedly (the wisdom of elves always seemed to be a constant), his bushy eyebrows slanting darkly as he considered the possibilities, each worse than the last, and walked back to Thorin.  
"I think it would be wiser to move on. We could make for the Hidden Valley." He suggested, and Thorin's expression turned sourer than usual.  
"I have told you already. I will not go near that place." The prince spat, the usual venom lodge firmly in his tone, and Gandalf's face lost some of its hopefulness, but remained determined.  
"Why not? The Elves could help us. We could get food, rest, advice." Gandalf pressed Thorin again, making it clear he would not take no for an answer.  
"I do not need their advice." Thorin cut in, also making it clear _he_ would not give in.  
' _Great. The old 'immovable object-irresistible force' situation.'_ Eragon bemoaned, as Saphira laughed at the sight unfolding below her.  
"We have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond could help us."  
"Help?" Thorin all but shouted, and launched into a quiet, but no less potent tirade. Both Eragon and Gandalf attempted to persuade Thorin of the folly of staying here, but the answers left both Eragon and Gandalf thoroughly fed up with the dwarf's views. Both stalked back to the horses, one picking up his pack, and the other mounting his horse, waving off all questions and riding and running off into the woods, leaving the dwarves and hobbit wondering what had just happened.

/

" _Mae g'ovannen, Elrond_."  
" _Mae g'ovannen, Mithrandir._ What brings you to my home?"  
Eragon and Gandalf had travelled to the Hidden Valley, guided by Gandalf's knowledge of the land, and were greeted by the Lord of Rivendell upon the bridge.  
"Annoying dwarves, black portents, and one who is not what he seems." Gandalf replied cryptically, his bushy eyebrows slanted, before his face opened, and a radiant smile beamed from his wizened visage, the happiness as clear as the gem in his staff. The two embraced, and Elrond turned to face Eragon, who gave him the greeting traditional to his homeland among elf-kind.  
" _Atra esterní ono thelduin_ , _Elrond, maerr-madr thornessa ílias."_ Elrond's brow, uncreased, now wrinkled in confusion. Turning to Gandalf, he whispered into the Istar's ear in Sindarin.  
" _Mithrandir, man pêd? Úbelin ten heniad._ "  
" _Nónen eithro remmen, Elrond, ir athradellin den. Lamed naw… said, ach te be i lam pedim hi. Semin hirithog megiled a penged be haid."_ Gandalf still held that smile on his face, though it was now more mischievous than welcoming. Knowing the meaning of the words Gandalf had spoken (for he had seen them in the wizard's mind) Eragon removed Brisingr from its sheath, and his bow from the quiver on his back, and gave them to Elrond. The elf marvelled at the sword, taking it in one hand and testing its weight and balance. He strung the bow and tested the draw-strength. By the time he handed the weapons back, the amazement was clear in his eyes, but also a deeper, hidden thought, the machinations of one discerning the whole situation.  
"So _this_ is the one Galadriel talked of." Elrond muttered to himself, almost processing the entire situation, before returning his attention to the waiting elf in front of him. "Welcome to Rivendell, _Cyll-hui_. I am sure my children would be most interested in the craftsmanship of your arms, if you would permit them to study them, but there is something more important for us to talk of at the moment. Come." Elrond turned and walked back through the gates of Rivendell, haste evident in his movements, and the pair followed. Eragon, though, was still trying to unravel the name, and turned to Gandalf for advice.  
"Gandalf, what did he call me? ' _Cyll-hui'?"  
_ Gandalf, as well, was equally submerged in rumination, but was shaken from his musings at the question.  
"It means 'Souls-bearer', Eragon. I wonder what possessed him to call you by such an odd name. The Lady Galadriel is rarely wrong about these things." Gandalf answered, his voice sinking to contemplative tones as he pondered the meaning. It was irking him greatly; he felt as if the name was familiar, but he could not place where.  
By the time their conversation had closed itself, Elrond, Eragon and Gandalf had arrived at a circular enclosure, marble arches meeting at the apex in a circle. Elrond sat upon the highest-backed seat, whilst Eragon and Gandalf seated themselves about the circumference.  
"So." Elrond pronounced, spiring his fingers in much the same way as Oromis, "What brought you, _Cyll-hui,_ to Rivendell?"  
Eragon just shook his head amusedly. He had just explained this to Gandalf. By the time he finished this tale, it would be night.  
' _This seems to be becoming an annoyance to you, little one. What say we liven the story at some_ _point?'_ Saphira pointed, the mischievousness unmasked in her stifled a smile, and replied in equal tones.  
' _Aye. Be careful, though. I fear whether these elves would take kindly to a dragon. You must remember this is no longer Alagaësia.'_ He warned, fearful of whatever power these elves held deep in this place. Returning his gaze to Elrond, Eragon breathed deeply, and launched into his tale.

/

It was sunset as Eragon finished the last words of his tale, and Elrond was completely enraptured, whether from surprise, interest, or another reason, and had not questioned the tale at all, but Eragon could feel them bubbling just below the surface. Standing he walked to the open night sky, and cried out in the Ancient Language.  
" _Saphira Bjartskular, dautr abr Vervada un Iormûngr, mor'amr du ven abr Elrond, sönr abr Eärendil un Elwing, un atra älfr sjon ono, wiol hvaët ono eru!"  
_ The words resounded through Imladris, echoing off the valley walls and ringing high into the violet sky. In answer, a low reverberation pounded the air, as the familiar pressure of wing-beats pressed upon Eragon's body. Gandalf, already accustomed to this, simply took his pipe and lit it, chuckling quietly at Elrond's reaction, who was glancing suspiciously at the tree-lined walls enclosing his home.  
' _Shall we make this a performance, little one?'  
'We shall.' _

**So? How was it?  
I f any of you are wondering how to pronounce **_**Cyll-hui,**_ **if I replaced the letters with English pronunciations, it would be spelled like this: Kill-hoo.  
Translations next!(sorry, but this is going to be here to stay)**  
" _Mithrandir, man pêd? Úbelin ten heniad._ "  
 _"Gandalf, what is he saying? I cannot understand him."  
"Nónen eithro remmen, Elrond, ir athradellin den. Lamed naw… said, ach te be i lam pedim hi. Semin hirithog megiled a penged be haid."  
"Neither could I, Elrond, when I came across him. His tongue is… odd, but similar to the one we speak. His sword and bow are equally different."  
_" _Saphira Bjartskular, dautr abr Vervada un Iormûngr, mor'amr du ven abr Elrond, sönr abr Eärendil un Elwing, un atra älfr sjon ono, wiol hvaët ono eru!"  
"Saphira Brightscales, daughter of Vervada and Iormûngr, reveal yourself to Elrond, son of Eärendil and Elwing, and show him the truth of your existence!"  
_ **Now that's out of the way, it may be a while before the next chapter is put up. I have exams next week, so there is going to be very little writing done in that time, so again, it may be a while.  
Novaer, mellyn. Harthon sevithogir i vronwe darthad an lû. **


	5. Chapter 5: A tale spun and a relic found

**Hey guys!  
SO sorry this took so damn long. Again, exams, GOD, they are so annoying. They're finished, though, so I can finally get back to writing this story.  
Yes, we are getting the trolls now, along with the troll's cave.  
Oh, and warning: I am diving into some **_**really**_ **obscure Tolkien in this chapter. Like,** _ **Silmarillion**_ **obscure.  
Enjoy!  
**

Chapter 4

' _Can you see them, Saphira?'  
_ Far overhead, above the clouds, no more than a shadow against the shadowed sky, the dragoness circled, scanning the thick forest below for any sign of their company.  
' _None, little one. They are not where we parted ways from them, and there are no fires I can see clearly.'  
'I concur with Saphira, Eragon.' _Gandalf muttered privately. ' _I cannot sense them well. Something obscures them. However, I can feel a fell presence to the west, and not far, either. I fear whatever this is has harmed our little group in some way. It is worrisome that they are so close to Imladris.'  
_ Saphira, who had heard all she needed to, cast her gaze to the west, back along the path they had came, and her eyes caught on a faint light in the distance.  
' _Eragon? Can you see this?'  
_ Quickly and efficiently, the rider and dragon linked their vision, and focused upon the dim fire in the distance.  
' _I can. What do you think it is?'  
'I do not know, little one, but I sus…' _ But at the point, the wind shifted, bringing with it the stench of something unfamiliar. She did not know what it was, but she knew it was _bad._ And layered beneath that was a smell she was very much acquainted with: dwarf. _  
'That's them. I can smell them clearly. There's something else there, though. Something_ _ **bad.**_ ' Her tone alarmed Eragon, who had rarely heard such raw disgust, and only then it was towards the Razac.  
"Gandalf! There's something very bad at that fire! We need to get there quickly!"

/

' _Saphira, no! You know how these dwarves react to dragons! If you go in there, and they are not bound, you will be the first thing they focus on!'  
'And if we wait for you to get there, they will all be dead and eaten by those trolls!'  
_Eragon and Gandalf were running through the forest, desperately trying to reach the firelight barely visible through the trees. For once, Saphira was the one showing a lack of patience, and urging that she take out the trolls before anything bad could befall their companions.  
' _In fairness, she is the one being practical, Eragon, as much as I hate to admit it.'_ Gandalf panted, as stamina was not one of his stronger points, and extended running like this was tiring on his body.  
' _I just don't want her to get hurt, even if it's the smallest chance. You know what we've been through. If something like Belatona happened again…'  
'I know what what you mean, Eragon, but look at it objectively. Saphira has grown since then. And besides' _Gandalf chuckled ' _What chance have trolls against a dragon?'  
'I suppose you are right.' _Eragon conceded, smiling slightly at that last statement.  
' _Teach them why you don't attack friends of a dragon rider, Saphira.'  
'Little one, I was going to, whether you agreed with it or not.'_

 _/_

"What would you 'ave us do, then? Let 'em all go?"  
The troll loomed dangerously over Bilbo, eyes gleaming angrily as he came to his conclusion.  
"You think I don't know what yer up to?"  
But as the words escaped his pockmarked lips, a wave of pressure rolled over all the beings by that campfire, dwarf, hobbit and troll. And with it came a gale-force wind and a sound like a thunderclap. The trolls were too engrossed with their anger towards Bilbo, and failed to pay attention to what hunted them in the sky, but the dwarves all glanced at the midnight blue sky in disbelief, for all of them knew what those signs meant.  
Dragon.  
All of the dwarves locked eyes, and none needed to say anything. They all knew something bad was coming. They just hoped it was more interested in the trolls as food than it was them.  
And with a crash, their fears were answered. Upon a rock overlooking the clearing, a mountain of writhing scale, wing and claw snarled down at the three trolls. All froze, and slowly, the trolls turned to face the source of their interruption. But too slowly. Before any could properly comprehend the incredibly bad luck of the situation they had found themselves in, the dragon pounced, sending two of the mountain dwellers down to the ground. Ruthlessly, she dispatched them with quick bites to the neck, breaking their spinal cords, and just as she whipped round to the third, the rock behind her finally crumbled as the faults snapped, exposing the sun's first rays upon the troll, who screamed in agony, his flesh petrifying as all of his kind did in sunlight. And as the last screams ended, elf and istar revealed themselves upon the ridge, staring down at the dragon below them in mock alarm. Immediately, Eragon slid down into the clearing, much to the dwarves' incredulousness, did not draw his sword, but simply raised his hand, and spoke in the language only he and the dragon knew (not that this was known to the dwarves).  
" _O skulblaka, valdr du ramíngrs du himmen. Ono eru mar aí bran, un ono kenna néiat du háski thornessa landr huildr wiol kyn onr. Edtha malabra néiat eom haina ono. Wiol lífa onr, un wiol du mor'ranr huginars pömuria, gánga skýnnan frá ilia thornessa. Ëfa ono sitja unin thornessa ilia, thornessar dvergar weohnata vergarí ono."  
_ The dragon snorted, and launched into the sky, flying away from the group, disappearing beyond the clouds. As she disappeared, Eragon buckled over, clasping his knees in an attempt to stay upright. He had not intended for it to become a spell, but it had drawn energy from him at an astonishing rate.  
' _Are you fine, little one?'  
'That took too much energy from me… I had better be careful next time. I did not intend that to become an incantation.' _  
' _Perhaps not, but it was certainly a clever way to make it seem you were not affiliated with me. Our friends will think that you had driven me off in some way. We are going to have to come up with a story to explain this to the dwarves, though. Thorin, especially, will be much more suspicious of us, now.'_ Saphira commented, already mulling over likely stories to mask the trail the dwarves might inadvertently pick up on.  
"Why?! Why did you do that?! Why didn't you kill it?!" Thorin's enraged voice rung from the ground, glaring at the elf before him.  
' _Speak of the devil…'_ Eragon moaned between them, causing Saphira to stifle a laugh.  
"Because… it was not…yet tainted. It was but… a youngling. Why do you think…elves and dwarves…hate each other? Stories…tales of evil… If I had killed…that dragon…what would I be? A murderer? A child-killer?" Eragon panted back between breaths, allowing venom to enter his tone, marking his point, so even someone as thick-skulled as Thorin could get the message. Apparently not, though, as Thorin, heedless of the clear warning, eyes blazing, shouted back.  
"All dragons are evil! They were made evil, and they will always be evil! They are naught but beasts! Smaug ravaged our home, drove us from our rightful place. Glaurung deceived, burned and killed the lands and races of Middle-Earth. Each and every one of their foul race is tainted from birth!"  
Something snapped. Eragon drew himself up, and pierced Thorin upon his gaze.  
"I have my path, Thorin Oakenshield, and I follow it. You may disagree with my beliefs, and you may question my motives, but I am not one who should be trifled with. Let me put this allegory to you; Would you kill an elfling, and hold no regret, no guilt, no remorse, and would you not fear the wrath of their parents, would you strike you down in anger and hatred? That is what this land has been doing for millennia, unheeded of the feelings of the victims. Call them monsters, beasts, wyrms, whatever you will, but they still care for their kin. They will nurture and protect their offspring, until it is time for them to become true dragons in their own right. Why do you think there is such enmity between dragons and the races of this land? You kill them, simply for existing, and they kill in recompense! You call it unprovoked? Would you call it unprovoked if the parents of the child you slaughtered came upon you in revenge?!"  
As he spoke, his voice rose in volume, until the words echoed among the trees and through the valley, silencing all arguments the dwarves had. None were willing to face the anger of an elf, not even Thorin, son of Thráin. Eragon, his rage spent, collapsed on the ground, staring venomously at the dwarven prince. The silence held for a long while, as the dwarves extricated themselves from their bindings and retrieved the weapons they had been relieved of by the trolls, and Thorin backed off with Gandalf to talk silently. Nervously, Bilbo tiptoed to Eragon, and gently tapped him on the shoulder.  
"How did you do that? You said it was young, but still? How?"  
This question caught the attention of the whole company, particularly Thorin.  
"Indeed? How?" For once the question was genuine.  
Gandalf, aware of how fragile Eragon's story was at that point, decided to intervene.  
"Well, I don't think he'll want to tell you, now, Thorin, given what you just said to him. I too, am curious, but you might want to think about what you say before you say it, hmm?"  
However, this did nothing to appease the company, and now the entire group was quietly muttering to themselves, wondering what the elf could possibly have done to drive the dragon off. Eragon was also thinking on this matter, but in the vein of concocting a suitable lie to convince the group of his truthfulness. He couldn't think of anything, though. But as he contemplated his possibilities, he idly saw the dawn rays catching on the sapphire set on his finger.  
' _I raised the hand with Aren on it…could they be convinced it was magic woven into the ring?'  
'Middle-earth does have a number of lost rings of such virtue, little one. We know that much to be true. It would not be such a far-fetched tale. It is worth a try, at least. We cannot afford to lose their trust. Otherwise, we will not be able to enter the mountain.' _Saphira interjected, reinforcing the possibility in Eragon's mind. Smoothly, he slid Aren off his finger, and presented it for all the dwarves to see.  
"It was my ring. It was forged long ago, only a while before my birth, during the age of the rings of power. It is one of the lesser rings, but, according to Elrond, the very last they made." Eragon lied, spinning a tale detailed to convince the dwarves of a suitable reason.  
"As such, the forger set in it a sapphire, and marked with this symbol, to signify that it was the last of its line, before the true rings of power were made. The forger has been forgotten, but the power it contains surpasses all of lesser magic rings, but it is not a rival to the Great Rings. It gives unto the bearer the ability to carry out that which they must do, and can only be worn by the one the ring chooses. It is a fickle thing, though, and often, I find myself in conflict with it, over whether an actions is just, if I wish to bring it about."  
"You speak of the ring as if it had a conscience." Gandalf inserted nonchalantly, a subtle warning hidden in his speech, noted by Eragon; only one ring was thought to have an agenda of its own.  
"It is not so much of a conscience, as a barrier. The forger knew the power it contained could be deadly and catastrophic in the wrong hands, and duly installed a defence. That is all."  
Calmly, Eragon slid Aren back onto his finger, and stood up, gazing at the now-blue sky above him.  
' _Let us hope such a situation does not arise again. Otherwise, I fear we will be forced to reveal ourselves for what we are to these people.'  
'Little one, given our track record, do you really think our luck is going to hold for long?_

/

"Oh, what's that stench?" Nori complained, as the company descended into the dark depths of the recluse.  
"It's a troll-hoard. Be careful what you touch." Gandalf forewarned them, as Eragon and Thorin led the way with torches. Soon, the dwarves spotted glinting on the floor, revealing coins, goblets and chests. Gandalf had not been exaggerating. It was a veritable _horde_ of treasure. Thorin's eye was drawn to the racks of weapons lying by the cave walls, and picked out two silver blades, encased in cobwebs, as the other dwarves rummaged among the detritus for coins, goblets, and other items. Eragon also came over and picked up another, of a darker shade, and pulled it free from the spider's webs.  
"These swords were not made by any troll." Thorin commented, simply by looking at the handle alone. Gandalf took the longer one and released it slightly from its sheath.  
"Nor were they made by any smith among Men." Gandalf muttered, before seeing the handiwork of the blade, at which his eyes widened. "They were forged in Gondolin. By the High Elves of the First Age." At the first mention of elves, Thorin made to place the sword back on its rack, but was interrupted by Gandalf who said that one, even a dwarf, could not wish for a finer blade. Reluctantly, Thorin drew it out, and admired the light as it caught on the sword's silver steel. Even he had to admit the magnificence of the craftsmanship.  
"Gandalf. If you would be so kind, what is this?"  
Eragon's curious voice wandered over to the wizard, who ambled over the uneven floor, sending leaf litter and skeletons scuttling over the earthern floor to examine the sword in the elf's hands. But as he saw the edges of the steel, watery black, reflecting and waving in the light, his eyes widened in shock, and he seized the hilt, throwing the sword to the ground.  
"Get away from that, Eragon! It is cursed!"  
Now Eragon was thoroughly interested. A cursed sword? Did such a thing exist? Could it exist?  
"By the Valar… how is it even possible?" He muttered to himself, eyes purveying the length of the sword.  
"What, Gandalf?"  
"Eragon… that is Anguirel, sword of the Dark Elf Eöl, later Maeglin, his son. He was the dweller of Nan Elmoth, during the Years of the Trees. He was a renowned metallurgist and inventor, creating many fearsome weapons, and crafted a set of armour made from galvorn, a material he discovered from his friendship with the dwarves. Its mate was Anglachel, later Gurthang, the blade that slew Glaurung. Both were crafted from a meteorite. It was supposed to have been in Gondolin at the time of the city's fall. A fell history lies in that blade. I would advise leaving it. It belonged to Maeglin, who was responsible for the fall of Gondolin."  
' _Another sword of brightsteel, little one. Though I think 'darksteel' would be more appropriate here.'  
'You are right there, Saphira. Should we use it, though? This situation reminds me of Zar'roc. Would these people condemn me for having such a sword? They seem less forgiving to this sort of thing than the elves in Alagaësia were.'  
'Give it a chance. Zar'roc was also despised, yet we gave it honour by using it, at least in the eyes of the elves. Remember: it is not the sword that makes the wielder. If they despise the sword, that is fine. But if they hate you for carrying it, then they are sorely mistaken if they think they can go unpunished.'  
'As blunt and precise as ever, Saphira.' _Gandalf interrupted amusedly, smiling at the conservation that had just played out.  
' _Do you think we should rename it, or should we let it keep its name, as we did with Zar'roc?'  
'The only reason Zar'roc retained its name, was because neither of us knew better as to its meaning, little one. If you feel uncomfortable with the name this… Eöl gave it, give the sword a new name. It is merely a rod of metal, after all, even if that metal came from the heavens.'  
_Eragon's mind was made up. Mentally, he contacted Gandalf, for the sake of privacy of the matter they were discussing. _  
_' _Gandalf, do you know what the name Anguirel means? I and Saphira would like to rename it, if we feel the name does not match the use we will give it. We think giving it a name in our language would change its purpose. I may be able to use Anguirel for good.'_  
' _I do not know, Eragon. I am still against using this blade. It is clearly dark to my eye. It has been used for evil, and it relishes conflict.'  
'I thought the same of Zar'roc, and yet look what we did with that. Would it be such a crime to let Anguirel have a second chance?'  
'Very well. But on your head be it.' _Gandalf sighed. _'The meaning is unclear. 'Ang' is Sindarin for 'iron', but 'uirel' is unknown to me. It could, however, be some archaic form of 'uir', meaning 'fiery', perhaps an ancestor of 'uireb', meaning 'eternal'. Perhaps it is even both. So you could say its name in this tongue is 'forever-blazing iron'.'  
'How similar. Brisingr, mine own sword, named after the essence of fire, unbreakable and this one, the same. Yet their appearances are opposites. One is dark; one is light. One is of this place; one is of ours. What do we call it?'  
'Give it a name which befits its difference to your own.' _Saphira suggested. _'Your own speaks of fire and light, so make this one of water and darkness.'  
_ For a while he gazed at the rippling edges of the sword, entranced by the repeating lines, before an idea hit him.  
' _What about…Durnareyna?'  
' 'Liquid temptress'. An accurate summation, I would think. You had better ask Gandalf to translate that into Sindarin, so the elves in this place know what you have renamed it.'  
'Gandalf, I and Saphira have decided on a name. Do you think such a blade deserves a name in Sindarin or another language of this place?'  
'For this blade? It deserves a name in Quenya, though you should remember the Sindarin version.  
'Fine. What is the Quenya for 'liquid temptress'?'  
'Liquid temptress'? Hmm…That is difficult."  
_After a lengthy pause, in which Eragon continued to observe the sword's length, drinking in every detail he could make out with his eye, Gandalf replied. _  
'Sahtasírima', perhaps? Literally, 'liquid one who seduces'. The Sindarin would be 'Sirithúthaes', 'flowing temptation'.'  
'I could always call it 'sea', though. That is what the elves meant when they meant 'liquid temptress'. It is simply a more poetic version, and I feel that it is more appropriate.'  
'That is much easier. 'Aear' in Sindarin, or 'Aïre' in Quenya.I agree, though. For a sword such as this, a more poetic name would be fitting. I would advise using the ones in Quenya, also. The language befits the sword.'  
_' _Sahtasírima it is, then.'_ Eragon thought to himself, but his eye was caught by runes around the hilt, spiralling down the grip, enclosed in silver wires wrought like vines. Taking a closer look, he was astonished to find glyphs of Liduen Kvaedhí, reading thus:  
"A blade, worthy of one from this world, but not of this land. You know me well, whoever finds this, but I am no longer what you expect." Shaken, he buckled Durnareyna to his belt, as Gandalf buckled Glamdring to his hip, Thorin doing the same with Orcrist. He would have to unravel the meaning later. The dwarves climbed out of the hole that was the troll's cave, squinting in the sunlight. Eragon bounced out into the forest, looking around for any possible dangers, and then beckoning to the dwarves. Gandalf came out last, and gave an elven dagger, which was more like a sword to the smaller members of their company, to Bilbo, who tried to refuse, but uneasily accepted under the wizard's unbreakable arguments. Suddenly, Thorin's urgent voice broke the moment, and the group rushed off into the woods, guarding against attacks. Passing foliage and breaking boughs, the group stumbled through the undergrowth, until a sled, drawn by _rabbits_ , stopped in front of them. On the sled stood a man, dressed in dirty clothes, a weather-beaten hat perched atop his head, a white, matted strip sliding down his hair, among the twisted, knotted brambles.  
"Radagast. Radagast the Brown. What on earth are you doing here?

 **Oh boy, that was close. They almost got rumbled! (Well, I say almost, but no-one had an inkling that there was any connection between the two.)  
Onto translation!  
**  
 _O skulblaka, valdr du ramíngrs du himmen. Ono eru mar aí bran, un ono kenna néiat du háski thornessa landr huildr wiol kyn onr. Edtha malabra néiat eom haina ono. Wiol lífa onr, un wiol du mor'ranr huginars pömuria, gánga skýnnan frá ilia thornessa. Ëfa ono sitja unin thornessa ilia, thornessar dvergar weohnata vergarí ono.  
O dragon, ruler of the kingdom of sky, you are but a youth, and you know not the danger this land holds for your kind. I do not intend to harm you, but for your life, and my peace of mind, go quickly away. If you stay here, the dwarves here will kill you."  
_ **Now, keep in mind that this speech is more in the vein of coming from an elf to a dragon from** _ **Middle-Earth.**_ **By their standards of size, Saphira is small, and could not be considered an adult. This is how Eragon got around the whole 'You cannot lie in the Ancient Language' thing. Hell, if you want an example, look at the movie version of Smaug (I say Movie, because in the books, Smaug and Saphira are roughly the same size (no, seriously, look it up. They are both meant to be ~50m long at these points in their continuities) but in the movie, Smaug is** _ **140**_ **m long(If you want a real life equivalent, 50m is ~0.5 of a jumbo jet, and 140m is ~ _2_** **jumbo jets) and he is most _definitely_ an adult by this point.) Due to their size difference, Saphira would be no more than a grown-up hatchling in their eyes, just going out into the world, based on her size (of course, we know that ain't true :) ) I don't think I have to explain the 'danger' part (come on, how many stories are there about Elves killing dragons at this point in the Tolkien universe? Too many!)**

 **Well, thanks for supporting this far!  
Enjoy!  
(Don't forget to review!) **_  
_


	6. Chapter 6: The thrill of the chase

**Hey everyone! Next chapter's here! Hope you all enjoy.**

Chapter 5

Radagast was…weird.  
Not only did Eragon soon discover the white strip was bird dung, hinting the wizard had a nest hidden under that battered hat of his, but his clothes were covered with forest detritus, and his fingers…even the Urgals would have been put off. And to top it all off, they had found a stick insect in his mouth. Now Eragon was currently enduring a thorough inspection by the wizened forest-dweller.  
"This certainly is an odd one you've found, Gandalf. Where did you say he turned up?"  
"On the outskirts of Hobbiton, in the Shire." Gandalf replied uneasily. Eragon, especially, was afraid of the reaction they would receive when the istar found out about Eragon's…companion. Gandalf had been… accommodating… of Saphira's existence, but they could not take any chances.  
"Certainly doesn't seem any different than any Sindar." Radagast muttered, flicking his gaze up and down along the elf's body "Though, given his features, I would hazard him to be… half-elven, perhaps? Kin of Elrond?"  
' _This one is observant.'_ Eragon thought to himself, shocked, but even more fearful. If all the wizards were as keen in sense as Radagast and Gandalf, his secret would not remain a secret for long, as far as Radagast was concerned. His attention was drawn back by the Brown wizard's musings.  
"I sense something different about you though, and I smell it too… something _familiar…"  
_ Gandalf and Eragon exchanged glances. Radagast was figuring it out. _  
_"Yes…yes…it _is_ familiar." Radagast muttered once more, the clogged gears of his mind turning in realisation. "I have smelt it once before. But only in the Withered…" He trailed off, and looked the elf deep in the eye, and spoke one word in their minds.  
' _Dragon.'_ Eragon winced slightly. His secret had been broken.  
"But it's more than just that, isn't it? There's something else…" came the istar self-meant words. "I can feel… a power… on your right hand… but not evil…" He thought out loud, staring at Eragon's gloved hand.  
"Radagast…" Gandalf whispered in warning, "Perhaps it is better to discuss these things elsewhere." motioning with his staff towards the dwarves near them.  
"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes, you're quite right, Gandalf. Such things best not be mentioned here, especially in this company." He replied nonchalantly, before whispering in Eragon's ear.  
"You and I have much to discuss, _Cyll-hui._ " Before Eragon could even react, the sorcerer was gone, having walked a distance with his colleague, and the pair were mulling over other matters. It seemed, after the mystery had been unravelled, Radagast had lost some of his interest. Eragon trotted over, knowing whatever matter the wizard had intended to discuss, it would have been important, if his entrance was anything to go by.  
"…Greenwood is sick, Gandalf. A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows anymore. At least, nothing good. The air is foul with decay." Radagast said, staring at the elder maiar, clutching his staff like the decrepit old man his appearance suggested he was. His tone was dark with worry.  
"But worst of all are the webs."  
"Webs? What do you mean?"  
"Spiders, Gandalf. Giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I am not a Wizard. I followed their trail." Here his voice became softer, and he drew closer to the other, "They came from Dol Guldur."  
The same image flashed quickly across Eragon's sight, towering, decrepit, overgrown with threatening foliage. He could see Radagast's memory of that dark place, and they matched perfectly.  
"Gandalf…that's the fortress I saw when I collapsed. What does this all mean? What does he mean by darkness?" he whispered, glancing at the grey-clad maiar, in whose mind the puzzle pieces were falling into place, and his face drew more and more grim.  
"A dark power dwells in there, such as I have never felt before. It is the shadow of an ancient horror. One that can summon the spirits…of the dead. I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness…a Necromancer has come." Eragon shuddered with that. Necromancers, according to Angela, practised a magic worse than the forbidden arts Shades delved in. If it was similar… nothing good could come of it, even worse a necromancer with such evil intentions.  
' _Saphira… do you think Radagast is even telling the truth? A necromancer… we didn't see any in Alagaësia, and I do not even know if such magic is possible in this realm.'  
'I think, unfortunately for us, he is, Eragon. If we assumed Gandalf's and Radagast's personalities were the same, do you think Gandalf would lie about such things?'_ That did nothing to alleviate his , meanwhile, shuddered, reliving the memory, and Gandalf, who had smoking his pipe, jammed the stem into the other wizard's mouth to calm his nerves. Radagast's eyes climbed up to his eyelids, and crossed, creating a most disturbing sight as his face went slack. Gandalf removed the pipe, and fixed his fellow with a serious look. The claims Radagast had made were outlandish, at best, and pure fiction, at worst.  
"Now, a necromancer. Are you sure?"  
Radagast's eyes snapped back to focus, and he clutched his staff to his chest, before drawing a knife from his cloak, wrapped in parchment, which Gandalf uncovered, face drawing grimmer, as evil radiated off the blade. Irrefutable, and terrifying, proof, of the wizard's validity.  
"That is not from the world…of the living."  
Suddenly, a howl pierced the deathly silence that had fallen on the group, and Bilbo looked around fearfully.  
"Was that a wolf? Are there wolves out there?"  
"Wolves? No, that is not a wolf." Bofur replied in equal tone, hands squeezing the handle of his mattock in a death grip. Behind them, a warg climbed the ridge, appearing in Eragon's view, who sent one of his arrows straight through its skull, killing it instantly. Another came at Thorin from behind, and Kili caught it in the chest with his arrow.  
"Warg scouts! Which means an orc pack is not far behind." Thorin spat, plunging Orcrist deep into the second warg's chest, piercing its heart. Eragon retrieved the arrow he had killed the Warg with, and ran up the ledge, peering onto the plains beyond, hidden from sight by the dense foliage in the undergrowth. There was no argument about it. He could see those mockeries of wolves in the distance.  
' _Eragon… this is the same group. I recognise their scent. If they have indeed been tracking us this entire time, why would they be this determined?'_ That shook him. The same group? They might have been tracking them this far, but why would they ambush while the group still appeared reasonably protected?  
' _I cannot see why they would go to such lengths. But are you getting the feeling that Azog is not quite as dead as Thorin believes?'  
_ ' _It would not be such a coincidence. If he is, though, we have opened a can of worms by starting this quest. If Azog pursues us all the way to the Lonely Mountain, it will only end in bloodshed. It may not be Alagaësia, but I fear we are going to fight with tooth and claw just as fiercely here to protect these lands.'  
'And that makes no mention of what might happen when we reach Erebor. Will he be too far gone, and will we be forced to slay him, or can he still be saved from himself?'_ Eragon mused grimly, the impending choice looming over him.  
' _Eragon. Let the future be. We have already spoken about this.'_  
His mouth quirked inscrutably, reminded once again of Saphira's continuing support throughout their adventures.  
' _Thank you, Saphira. I need to stop_ _ **doing**_ _that. But what if…'  
_ He stopped it there, sensing the oncoming storm that would intrinsically follow if he continued, and returned to their group, just in time to hear Radagast chuckle mischievously:  
"These are Rhosgobel rabbits. I'd like to see them try."

Radagast burst forth from the forest on his sled, Saphira high up in the sky, watching in case the wargs did indeed catch him. Surprisingly, though, the rabbits had no trouble outpacing the wargs, and Radagast himself was ducking and dodging sword swings by his pursuers when they tried to flank him. Meanwhile, the company snuck across the open landscape, often turning in a different direction when Radagast drew the wargs in their path, forcing them to avoid detection. It was mostly a blur to Eragon; he was running with the dwarves, paying attention only to the wargs around them, but nothing else. At one point, the found themselves hiding below a rock, while a warg and its rider stood atop it, searching for their scent. Thorin motioned to Kili and Eragon with his eyes, and the pair nocked arrows. He still couldn't shake that uneasy feeling. Somehow, he knew there was more to these orcs than just raiders. It was too much of a coincidence. In his distraction, though, the arrow only caught the warg's flank, not his intended target, and not even enough to kill it, and the animal's death scream, as Thorin, Dwalin and Bifur clobbered it and its rider to submission, caught the attention of the rest of the filthy pack and alerting them of the dwarves' presence. The Wargs pounded earth, leaping over the terrain, closing the distance between them and their prey. Eragon and Gandalf ran off, the dwarves and hobbit swiftly following. Running for what seemed like an age, the group halted in their tracks as the wargs appeared in front of them, and Gandalf led them off in another direction, through depressions and over hills in that sparsely wooded plain. But to no avail. The wargs always managed to surround them. By this point, most of the company were resigned to simply hacking through every orc to escape. Gandalf, though, had suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen, but Eragon could sense that he had hid himself in the cave system just below his feet.  
' _He knows what he is doing, Eragon. Let him do it his own way, and we will do it ours.'  
'Very well. I've been itching to see how well Durnareyna fights, anyhow.'_  
Eragon and the dwarves drew their weapons, and Eragon settled into an uncomfortable stance as Durnareyna and Brisingr balanced themselves in his hands. For the briefest of moments, he admired Durnareyna's balance; it fitted his hand almost as well as Brisingr and Zar'roc, and the weight was perfect. If he had not forced himself to learn how to fight with both hands, this would likely not have worked. The waving darkness on the edges seemed to become more jagged and violent, as if it was happy that it was finally going to draw blood for the first time in 100 millennia. Eragon would have to examine the sword closer when they returned to Rivendell. Gandalf chose that moment to pop up from behind the rock, like a monochrome jack-in-the-box, and drew the dwarves' attention, who bolted down into the dark, along with the hobbit. Eragon, however, stayed his ground, and began cutting through the orc pack, severing warg necks and piercing orc hearts. Any blade that attempted to find its mark was blocked by Brisingr or cut by Durnareyna. Eragon did not notice that the elves Elrond had sent attacked from the orc's flank, until an elven glaive took the head of the orc he himself had been about to kill. Bemused by the sudden arrival, he flashed between the grotesque creatures, killing all save one, and drove both swords through the orc's arms like stakes, before turning to the elves, wiping the viscous blood from his clothes, glancing despairingly at the sleeves.  
"Tell Elrond I thank him for his support. The dwarves are below us, in the tunnels. That will take them to Rivendell, correct?"  
The elf in front nodded, and turned to his companions, muttering amongst themselves in Sindarin, before turning back.  
"It will. Where did you find the second sword, _Cyll-hui_? Lord Elrond did not inform us of this."  
Eragon caught on that, considering the best course of action. Once again, he had an impossible choice. Should he reveal that he had found the blade of Gondolin's bane?  
' _It is your choice, little one. I feel we are in a loop, though. This encounter reminds me of our audience with Queen Islanzadí. Choose what you feel is right, and we will suffer the repercussions, whatever they may be.'  
_ Sighing, he glanced once at the dark sword struck through the ground, and returned his gaze to the elves.  
"Our company came upon a troll hoard, north of here. We found swords, elven-made, from Gondolin." A ripple of surprise passed through the assembled ranks of the cavalry. "Thorin and Gandalf carry them, and I believe Bilbo carries one also. What I found, though, was less benevolent. I found the sword of the Dark Elf." Another ripple of mutterings, now darker, and the lead elf returned his gaze.  
"Is this true? That sword was lost with the Fall of Gondolin, as were all the other elven blades. If what you say is true, you should have left that sword where it lay."  
Eragon could feel Saphira growling above them in the sky, reminding him of the conversation they had already had on the topic.  
"It is my choice whether I wield the sword or not. I will consult Elrond on the matter, but in the meantime, leave the question of whether the 'sword makes the swordsman' untouched."  
All the elves knew there was more behind those words than a half-elf, and were sensible enough to leave the matter be, steering the conversation in a different direction.  
"What will you do with the orc?"  
That was an easy question to answer.  
"There is something I wish to confirm, and when I have, I will send him to sleep with the rest of his kin."  
The elves nodded once more, and pulled their horses round, pointing towards Rivendell, and set off at a gallop. Eragon turned back, confident that meeting was over, and walked over to the pinned orc, and put one foot on the creature's chest. Closing his eyes, he dove through the orc's feeble defences, wading amidst the foul urges to tear, rip and maim him. It was dismally dark and cold in the orc's head; muddy air swirled, and a red moon cast everything in bloody light. Among the orc's blurry memories, a single figure stood out. A pale, towering, well-built silhouette, an iron claw on his left hand, a huge mace in his right. Parallel, crossing scars marred his face and chest, and a devilish grin split his features, exposing rows of white, jagged teeth. Eragon didn't need anyone to tell him who this abomination was. Azog the Defiler was still very much alive. Pulling his way from the orc's tarry consciousness, he lowered his head to the orc's ear, and whispered menacingly into it.  
"Why does your master hunt the dwarves? Tell me, or I will make your passing long and painful."  
The orc snapped down on the air, hissing in defiance.  
"Stupid elf-scum. He will kill you. He will kill you all. You think he is alone?"  
The orc began laughing to itself, and Eragon's eyes hardened, staring at the disgusting creature below him.  
"Cease your riddles, _älfa_ _rífaí._ Tell me his goal, and I will let you leave swiftly. Why does he hunt us?"  
The orc just kept laughing, amused by some secret, twisted joke.  
"The one you think dead? Not as dead as he would appear. You can't stop him. No-one can. You will _all_ burn in fire."  
He flicked one hand at the orc, a resounding crack echoing across the plains, and he retrieved his swords. Swiftly, he searched for the dwarves, and when confident that they were far enough away, signalled for Saphira that it was safe to land.  
' _What did he mean? 'The one you think dead'?'  
'I do not know, and I doubt we could unravel this riddle now, little one. Keep this counsel to yourself for now, and we will see what Gandalf and Elrond make of it.'  
_With those dread words still hanging above their heads, Saphira leapt into the air, and disappeared beyond the clouds, returning to Rivendell, where answers might await their new-found questions.

 **So** **… how was it? Good, bad? Either way, the plot thickens!**

 **And yes, before you start asking whether I plucked 100,000 years out of a hat at random, that is _actually_ how old the sword, by this point in the chronology, at least.**

 _älfa_ _rífaí: Torn elf **(because orcs are, according to Tolkien, corrupted elves.)**_

 **See you next chapter! (I think we may get into the Misty Mountains, fingers crossed!)**


	7. Chapter 7: The council of the Wise

**Hey guys! I'm BACKKKKKKK! Sorry this took so long.  
Now, before we begin, I must warn there is a _super-_ long passage of Ancient Language in this one, and just skip to the bottom for the translation. That's the norm for me. Anyway, here we go! **

From his vantage from her back, Eragon could see the rolling hills give way to the great cleft in the green earth, the marble settlement shining in the sun. Aiming just behind the spires and numerous walkways, they landed before a sculpture of rushing water, waiting for the elves to come, as they would inevitably. He had seen the elves all stiffen in shock as the thunderous beat of wings blasted down upon their homes. Sooner or later, one would come. As he waited, he admired the flowing water, and the tall, swaying trees around him, as Saphira curled up upon the grass, dozing under the hot sun, basking as she often would. Subtly, pounding feet came as small shocks through his soles, and he turned to find a guard of elves, garbed in armour, weapons close at hand. Upon seeing him, they relaxed, and one among them stepped out.  
"Well met, Eragon. I am Lindir. Whereabouts would your company be?"  
He walked over, passing his hand over his sternum in tradition, and replied.  
"Coming through the passages and rifts through the earth. Gandalf leads them, and Elrond will not be long behind, if I am correct. We dispatched all the orcs in the region. One of them bore troubling news."  
Lindir, though, was not listening. His dark eyes were fixed upon the pommel jutting above Eragon's back, a mistrusting look in his gaze. Seeing this, Eragon sighed, and drew Durnareyna, holding it out, flat down, presenting it for inspection.  
"We found it in a Troll hoard, to the west of here, along with three others. Those are of Gondolin, by Gandalf's reckoning." Lindir breathed sharply, something akin to suspicion in his eyes.  
"But this" he pressed on "is something…darker. It is a sword that Mithrandir felt I should not bear. It is the mate of Anglachel."  
Here the elf's visage darkened, like thunderclouds on the horizon, memories of the past swirling skin-deep, an ancient anger reawakening.  
"That blade…should be cast back to the fiery furnace from whence it came. What use would you have of it, Cyll-hui? 'Tis a curséd blade. The creature that wielded it was responsible for the fall of our greatest city. Many would not take kindly to your wielding it."  
Behind him, Saphira opened one flashing eye, a fiery gaze splitting the argument, crushing the debate with no words said. Smoothly, Eragon resheathed the sword.  
"The curse this sword may carry is bound to another name. I gave it one anew. It is Sirithúthaes, she of the flowing water that invites travellers to sleep in her calm, but strangles them from within. In my language, its name is Durnareyna, the liquid temptress of the deep ocean. I do not expect you to accept its presence; indeed, if you wish to despise it, do so as much as you want. But do not let that hatred flow from the sword to its bearer. Neither I nor Saphira will stand for that. Make sure everyone in Rivendell knows that."  
Lindir, the suspicion gone from his eyes, nodded, and whirled around, walking back among the guards and trees, both standing firm in the gentle breeze. He could see the wary glances in the guards' eyes. Nodding slightly, he trod back to the basins, and leant against its cold surface, letting the heat seep away from his dirty skin into the solid stone. Almost forgetting, he weaved the light around them, cloaking them from all curious eyes, be they elf, dwarf or hobbit, and settled back against the rock, falling deeper and deeper into sleep.

/

"The Valley of Imladris. In the common tongue, it's known by another name."  
"Rivendell."  
Under the noonday sun, in the hard glare of its light, thirteen dwarves, a hobbit and a wizard looked down upon the last homely house east of the sea, amazement glinting, visible to even Eragon, who was watching on the arches of the White Council's meeting place. From his vantage point, he saw each and every one of the company emerge into the sunlight, and gazed upon them as they made their way closer to the arched entrance. As usual, Thorin's visage wore that sour expression, as whenever he was confronted with anything elfish.  
' _What do you think Thorin will make of Elrond, Saphira? I do not think that either are familiar with the other.'  
'We shall see, little one. But I think that, whatever his reaction, where there are dwarves, there will be chaos.'  
_He smiled at that, and jumped down to the marble floor, and began walking down the path, glancing under the arched buildings, admiring the architecture. It held that beauty that spoke of elven hands, but it was a different kind of beauty. This dwelling was more akin to a man's, than a true elf's. Just another clue to Elrond's half-elven lineage. As he walked, two figures stood out, whispering quietly between themselves; one, a man dressed in white robes, flowing white hair upon his chest and head, and iron-wrought staff with a white stone. Next to him, an elf-maiden, a circlet of silver ensnaring her golden hair, and upon her finger, a silver ring on her right hand, light wrapping about it in folds, like those of her garment. As he passed, the elf-maiden glanced at him with ice-blue eyes, ancient, and yet, still warm.  
' _We are well met, Cyll-hui. I am Galadriel, daughter of Gil-galad, the lady of Lothlórien.'  
_ The voice was whispering, old, betraying years of experience and age. Its tone was neutral, but Eragon could hear the faintest traces of emotions threaded through it. Even with that, though, he couldn't tear his attention away from her mind: Its vast expanse was empty, filled with wavering strings, plucked by an unseen force, laying a solemn and aged music over the vista. The thought crossed his mind that she might be even older than Gilderien.  
' _I am Eragon, Son of Brom. We are well met indeed, maerr-kona du weldens draumars. It is a pleasure to meet you, for Gandalf has told me much of you.'  
_ His attention was drawn back to the ring upon her finger, whose light was pulsing, glowing brighter and brighter.  
' _Your ring seems to be reacting to something. Is that normal?'  
_ Even from here, he could see the lady Galadriel's eyes widen imperceptibly, and then focus back on him. Subtly, her left hand touched the other, twisting the ring gently about her finger. _  
'Do not speak of such things in the open air. We will meet later, Cyll-hui, but until then, keep your knowledge secret. Such things are not lightly spoken, even in times such as these. I would speak with you. There is much you do not know, and much you must. Meet me in the great library upon the rising of the moon.'  
_

/

The meeting had been… frigid, at best. While Thorin had not been his normal, openly antagonistic self, on account of Gandalf's constant presence, there was nothing that could be done of his mannerisms, and those little gestures spoke volumes. Now, the sun had set, and faint moonlight from the ox's horns shone down, casting the valley in gentle quiet. Elrond had already given him a room among the many in the assortment of bridges and arches; a bed, a polished silver mirror on the sideboard, which he had considered using to attempt a scrying of Alagaësia, but had dismissed the idea; there was just too much risk. There was a balcony outside in the air with a breathtaking view of the stars and the gentle reflection on the water's surface. And of course, the books. In his room alone, there was a tall and sturdy case, filled to the brim with texts, scrolls and much more besides. Texts of ancient myths and legends, tales from before the Age of the Sun, a chronicling of this land's most courageous heroes and darkest enemies. As it were, though, Eragon was waiting, gazing up into the night sky, tracing the lines of unfamiliar constellations in the onyx expanse. Over by the waterfall, Saphira was sleeping as she had been for much of the day, the spell now linked to herself, rather than Eragon, so she could sleep in peace. Gazing up at the pinpricks of light above, he wondered what had been the outcome under different points. Had another taken up the tyrant's mantle? Had his liege survived? What had become of Arya and his foster brother? These and more crowded his head, smothering him like autumn leaves upon hard ground. Shaking his head, he walked back to the room, and plucked a book from the shelf, a leather-bound book, similar in width to Domia abr Wyrda, and sat down upon the mattress, staring at the title, attempting to puzzle out the strange, unfamiliar runes. Looking straight on, the letters were indecipherable, flowing script, unlike the glyphs of Liduen Kvaedhí, but more untamed than the runes of men or dwarves. Oddly, though, out of the very corner of his eye, the strokes of inlaid gold seemed to morph, sliding across the rough surface into more familiar shapes, along with a different language.

 _Du mál abr branar abr Húrin  
_

Disturbed by this strange occurrence, he faltered momentarily, stricken with uncertainty as to the cause of this strange sorcery, but finally, he flicked through the pages, letting the book settle where it would. And upon the parchment, as the familiar glyphs condensed, was written this:

" _Heill, Gurthang! Ono kenna né maerr-madr orono hollr, aíran du lam hvorna stýra ono. Frá né blödh ach ono flyja. Ach ono, líkr thaët, du blödh abr Túrin Turambar taune, un weohnata ono vergarí edtha skýnnan?"  
Un frá du sverd kvisaí aí óthr issaleikr unin svar:  
"Já, eka weohnata drekka blödh onr ilianan, svá eka sé du blödh abr Beleg maerr-madr iet tyna, un du blödh abr Brandir, vergarío unin ófadnathr. Eka weohnata vergarí ono skýnnan."  
Thenear Túrin setja du hjǫlt vel du deloi, und thrauthaí sig vel blóth-refill abr Gurthang, un du sverd svartr taune lífa älfrs. Mar Mablung un du älfya kaustaí un sjono vel du líki abr Glaurung vergarío, un erí forvithaí eom sjon aí manlíkan, klæddir unin brisingr kvikr, hvorna rithaí um älfr, líkr órumar un issa, sem älfr thrumaí vel du hræ skulblakas galba. Frá munnr älfrs kaustaí aí rǫdd uppgangur, hvárgi reithr né hryggur, enn älf beraí du byrthr hridds. Unin auga älfrs ero aí istalrí argets un sjóams, un vel brun älfrs, aí rithaí húthflúr; aí skulblaka, brisingr frá munnr älfs, enn du istalrya aíran skiptaí, hvenaer their kausta eom du líki aí madrs.  
"Eitha, ono frumburthi, branar abr du íhugunar, wiol thornessa skulblaka, unin brjálæthi älfrs, ero vergarío unin ófadnathr. Taune kind onr, un eitha edtha eom kind iet."  
Mál thornessa ónáthai du älfya, un Mablung møneí aí oro unin almr älfrs, áhyggjur galban maru hvaët slíkr orthar nataí gegna. Mar enn älfr geraí thornessa, du manlíkan bendaí vel älfr, aíran einn fingr, un ý-almr galba jierdaí, un älf hverfaí eom du und.  
"Hverr eru ono, thaët weohnataí kalla vithurstyggthar thornessar kind onr? Ono eru enn aí huskárl abr Morgoth full? Eka weohnata vergarí ono wiol orthar!"  
Un Mablung æthaí fram, un älfr hlaupaí du handleggr skulblakas galba enn aí gata. Du manlíkan bragthaí néiat, un aíran kopaí, aí issaleikr un brisingrleikr sjón, iskalde un brennandi. Frá klæthi älfrs, aí straumr maldrs dettaí, un tauneo du líki skóths, un du járn stydjaí steypt. Medh vellíthan, älfr stöthvaí du älfa, enn älfr dansaí til un frá vel du felustathur órums, enn älfr weohnataí vel du deloi. Lam älfrs ero skýnn, talhamr älfrs skýnnr; älfr kodthro du sverd abr Mablung midhli fingar älfrs, un sjanano rúnar eom du älfa. Svá galba älfr eru, thaët Mablung hethro né kostr. Du sverdar skínaí un gnýro, mar Mablung eru afvopnaí, sverd älfrs dettaí eom du deloi, un du manlíkan skyddaí du blóth-refill vel du vithbein älfas.  
"Nóg. Eitha. Núna. Eka eddyr néiat abr Morgoth, mar eka weohnata néiat hika eom skölir kind iet. Edtha skilja sem ono threyjar eom celöbras kind iet, un edtha virthing hollr onr. Líkr thaët, Eitha ie un kind iet unin mor'ranr, un ótraflathur, un eka weohnata néiat ónátha ono. Ëfa ono ach néiat maru varnathar thornessar hlíta, kenna sem du urthr brisingrs skulblakaleikr weohnata kausta vel ono, un kenna sem ~~~~~~~~~~~ __hethar varaí ono um du afleithinginar."  
_ The last line disturbed him. Where a name would go, the letters could not form; instead, the drawn lines writhed like snakes, twisting about each other, knotting and slithering on the parchment, as if not knowing how they should reform.  
' _Can you make anything of this, Saphira?'  
'I cannot, little one, and this disturbs me greatly. What book is imbued with magic in such a way? It would seem beneficial, but it bears consideration as to why. Perhaps another who is more familiar with this land's writing could tell us.'  
_With those words locked firmly as his target, he replaced the book, and rushed through the door, hurriedly walking to Elrond's library, in search of something that could help him.

"Looking for something, are we, young one?"  
Eragon whirled round, for in his panic, had forgotten that some may not have still been asleep, and saw Galadriel smiling from the entranceway. At those pale eyes he relaxed. Piled on the table in front of him were scripts, reams of parchment, and other unmeaningful writings.  
"Aye. Nothing more than a curiosity I wish to fulfil. A mention of an odd figure in an old tale I had not read before."  
Galadriel walked towards him, picking a script from the shelves, and browsed through it, coming to a page, before handing it him. Upon its pages were drawings: rings, arranged in four rows. The last, nine, dark grey, a dark hue about them, dark jewels set in them. Seven, paler, but still set with dark jewels, more radiant than the previous. Three, beautiful and sacred; one, silver with diamond, another gold with ruby, and another with sapphire. And below them, a single golden band, bright runes inscribed in fire on its width.  
"These are the Rings of Power, forged by various hands, both good and evil, in another age. It is something that both I and Mithrandir have feared for long now. There is an evil, a sickness, yet Curumo refuses to acknowledge it. I fear for his well-being, but I feel he is beyond saving now. You must be careful around him."  
Musing on her words, Eragon did not notice as she leaned over his shoulder, scanning across the runes with practiced ease, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion.  
"How can you read this, Cyll-hui? 'Tis the language of my people. It should be foreign to you."  
Jerked from his ruminations, he turned back to her, formulating the curious events that had occurred with the book.  
"I was reading… the 'Lay of the Children of Húrin'. I opened it at random, and at first, I couldn't read it. But from the corner of my eye, the words seem to change. I do not know how it would be done. Is that sort of magic inscribed into items as commonplace as books?"  
The lady of Lothlórien glanced away, twisting that ring again, avoiding his gaze. After a lengthy pause, she spoke.  
"It is not. There is no magic I know that commands language in such a way. You may know of one, but that is your way."  
Eragon stiffened. Now that he thought about it, what did he know of her? Only that which he had learned from Gandalf, and the wizard had certainly not been able to pass on anything about the strange newcomer. How did she _know_?  
"Do not fear, youngling. No-one else knows." She placated, trailing her snow-white fingers along the curve of one shoulder, easing the tension from his muscles.  
"I would simply wish that you keep your wits, and your experience, when you meet with Curumo. When he learns your secret, I do not know what he will make of it. Now, who was this man that inspired your curiosity?"  
' _Amusing.'  
'What?'  
'She sees right through you, as if you were made of glass, and your secrets were laid bare. She also seems to be oddly intimate to people she has only just met. That disturbs me, for an elf.'  
_Shaking that thought from his mind, he returned his attention to the question he had been asked.  
"It was just after Glaurung's death." Galadriel nodded, a faint smile on her lips. They both could see the sad irony in that. "There was a… a figure… in the story. It was the only word that did not reform, so I could not understand it." Eragon hefted a book from the table, opening it to the bookmark, glanced at it from the corner, and placed his finger upon the word that would not reveal itself.  
As she read the lines, the smile disappeared, and a serious expression came upon her visage.  
"Who you speak of… is shrouded in mystery and time immaterial. No-one knows his true name; it has been thought that he himself did not know. The word you cannot read is only the Sindarin for the title you could read. It means Amluguinaurchîr, lord of the dragonfire. There is another reference to him; "After Ancalagon's demise, high atop the peaks of Thangorodrím, a lone, tall figure stood. It is said that Eärendil saw the man, and sailed down, asking what a person would want in such a fell place. His reply came like thus:  
" _You and your kind slaughter and murder us like beasts and dark things, when you yourselves are the dark ones. They are all of them sick, a disease the only cure you have to is death. But I would have seen them cured, returned to their true glory, given back that which was taken. And you, Eärendil, father of Elrond Half-elven, are not exempt from that."_ Eärendil replied, saying that dragons were the beasts that they were by nature, abominations upon the earth. The man looked up at him, a molten gaze, and full of anger, grief and memories. His rebuking was swift and fierce.  
" _Dragons? Thou knowst not of dragons. You have not survived their wrath, purged their sickness, and seen the light of their life shine forth upon the earth and sky. 'Tis a beautiful thing, a dragon's light. But thou wilt never know it, for you slaughter and burn. None of the races on this earth will ever see it, for the dragons shalt never show it to them. Now begone, Eärendil. Your words weary me, and thou hast other places that thou must attend to, do you not? But know this: If anyone wishes to know what I am called, they may know me as Amluguinaurchîr, lord of the dragonfire. I am_ _Renvíthrillen, he of true-silver strength. I am fire; I am life; I am time."  
_ "Those are the only times he appears in our legends. No-one knows more. Some think that he hides in the Withered Heath, among the creatures he favours most and belongs to. Others think that he _is_ a servant of Morgoth and Sauron, a man driven mad, with an attachment to the creatures they created."  
"Do you think he exists?"  
"He certainly exist _ed_. The old tales do not lie. Whether or not he still lives is another matter." Here the lady of Lothlórien paused, as if considering something, before speaking once again. "If he does, I would beseech you to come upon the Withered Heath, and seek him out. His service would prove invaluable against Smaug. When you come to Mirkwood, as you will on your journey to the Lonely Mountain… go north, past the mountains, and seek him. I believe you would a better chance than most of reasoning with him, given your… situation." They smiled once again. That was a more than gentle way to phrasing it. Contemplating these things, he did not see Galadriel leaving from the doorway, until a question sprung up in his mind.  
"Why do you remember the words? What you recited feels more personal than a book would have phrased it."  
She smiled once again.  
"Because Eärendil told me himself. But that is neither here nor there. It is time for you to attend the Council of the Wise."

/

"I'm simply doing what I feel to be right."  
"The dragon has long been on your mind."  
' _Riveting conversation.'_  
' _Saphira. This is serious. Let me at least concentrate on what they're saying.'  
_ Next to him, the man from the balcony was sitting, fixing Gandalf with a gaze of veiled suspicion. There was something about him Eragon didn't like. Something he couldn't put his finger on.  
"That is true, my lady. Smaug owes allegiance to no one. But if he should side with the enemy, a dragon could be used to terrible effect."  
Here Eragon's interest piqued. Gandalf was steering the conversation towards a platform that had definite proof.  
"What enemy? Gandalf, the enemy is defeated. Sauron is vanquished. He can never regain his full strength." There was something about Saruman he couldn't put his finger on… something he didn't like.  
"Gandalf, for four hundred years we have lived in peace, a hard-won, watchful peace."  
From the archway, Elrond supported, drawing a sharp look from Eragon, before he looked away at Galadriel's own glance.  
"Are we? Are we at peace? Trolls have come down from the mountains. They are raiding villages, destroying farms. Orcs have attacked us on the road."  
"Hardly a prelude to war." Elrond rebutted.  
"I would not be so quick to judge, old friend. There has been news from the North. I fear the orcs are gathering once more in Gundabad."  
At this, Saruman's face set somewhat more, the face of one suspicious and incredulous at the validity of what he has been hearing.  
"The North? From who? The Dunedaín never venture that far. Besides, the kingdom of Angmar was ruined an age past. How could they mass in such numbers again?"  
Between Gandalf and Galadriel, there was a flash of visual connection, so fleeting all present nearly missed it, though not Eragon. They knew something more, that much was certain. From there, the conversation returned to normal, remaining conspicuously dull throughout. He could feel himself getting impatient, and more and more ingrained against Saruman. When was Gandalf going to bring out the sword? As if in answer, he lifted the blade upon the table, removing the covering, revealing the monstrosity beneath. A morgul blade. Evil positively _radiated_ off it. Out of instinct, he mouthed a curse, gripping the marble table, and pointed thunderously at the blade. The evil was spreading, exuding outwards, a mist of shadows, through which a figure, black on black, was seen. His outline shimmered in the lack, and ghostly screeching drove spikes in Eragon's mind. Unfazed, he chanted angry words in his own tongue.  
" _Eitha, sverd. Ono hethar né ilia vel thornessa deloi. Sverd daeamars, edtha kæfa silbena svartr onr. Ono eru mar aí sverd vanyalis!"  
_ The dark presence hissed in spite, and curled inwards, sucked back into the cold iron, writhing close to the metal, but coming no farther. The others about the table stood up hard looks in their eyes. Galadriel seemed to be the only one unaffected by what had just happened, and kept smiling to her own private thoughts. Taking deep breaths, he calmed himself down, ridding his mind of the primal instincts, and gestured from the blade to Saruman.  
"A relic of Mordor. What can you deny of this proof, man of skill?"  
They all returned to the table, contemplating the actions and appearance of such an item. Eragon noticed that Saruman seemed to be holding his staff closer than before, and his face was more drawn and wary.  
' _Any longer, and he will turn into a horse.'_ Saphira whispered dryly, buzzing about his mind in boredom with sharp-tongued quips. He ignored those, and focused on the conversation at hand.  
The topic had turned once again.  
"I'm not convinced, Gandalf. I do not feel I can condone such a quest. If they'd come to me, I might have spared them this disappointment. I do not pretend to understand your reason for raising their hopes."  
That laid it to rest. There was something of Saruman he didn't trust. Why would he want the dragon alive? If he had spoken of the potential harm that may have come from waking the beast, Eragon would have been prepared to acknowledge the statement. But there was nothing of that ilk in his words. Instead, there was something more sinister buried deep in his tone. Once more, on the mention of Smaug, his mind whirled, thinking of the moral choices he would have to make as they came upon the mountain. On a whim, he cast his mind far and wide like a net, shadowing the land, aiming for two particular spots. One to the east, and one to the North-east. The former was a haze of darkness, greed and gold, a thirst of the shining metal. The latter he could not find. As he retracted his net, an elf came running up into the canopied space. It was Lindir.  
"My Lord Elrond. The dwarves. They're gone."

 **Oh ho! What is this? Who have we here?  
Sorry about that. But, as you will find out later, Amluguinaurchir isn't a one-time reference. He's coming, just you wait!**

 **Now, onto the translations!**

 _"Du mal abr branar abr H_ _úrin"_

"The lay of the children of Húrin"

" _Heill Gurthang!..."  
"Hail Gurthang! No lord or loyalty dost thou know, save the hand that wieldeth thee. From no blood wilt thou shrink. Wilt thou therefore take Túrin Turambar, wilt thou slay me swiftly?  
And from the sword came a cold voice in answer:  
"Yea, I will drink thy blood gladly, so I might forget the blood of my master Beleg, and the blood of Brandir, unjustly slain. I will slay thee swiftly."  
Then Túrin set the hilt upon the ground, and threw himself the point of Gurthang, and the black blade took his life. But Mablung and the elves came and looked upon the corpse of Glaurung slain, and were amazed to see a figure, clad in living fire, like serpents and ice writhing about him, as he stood upon the great dragon's carcass. From his mouth came a booming voice, neither angry nor sad, yet carrying the burden of time. In his eye was a flame of black and silver, and upon his brow, a writhing brand; a dragon, burnng a man, yet the flames only parted.  
"Begone, ye firstborn, children of Ilúvatar, for this dragon, in his madness, has been slain unjustly. Take your kin, and leave me to mine."  
And this speech disturbed the elves, and Mablung nocked an arrow in his bow, greatly worried by what such words could mean. But as he did, the figure pointed upon him, a single finger, and bow of great yew snapped, disappearing into the void.  
"Who art thou, that would call these abominations thy kin? Art thou also a servant of foul Morgoth? In which case, I will slay thee for thy words!"  
And Mablung rushed forth, climbing the great beast's forearm as a path. The figure did not stir, and just kept staring, a cold and burning gaze, frigid and wrathful. From his garment, a stream of liquid fell, taking form as a weapon, and settling in his hand as molten metal. With ease he blocked the Elda, dancing back and forth upon the serpent's scales, as easily as one would on flattened ground. His hand was swift, his tongue swifter; catching Mablung's sword between his fingers, all the while muttering secret passings to the elf. As great as Mablung was, though, against this being he had no might. The figure sent his sword spinning into the abyss, and nestled the point of his sword upon Mablung's collar.  
"Enough. Leave. Now. I am not of Morgoth, but I shall not hesitate to protect mine own. I understand that thou wish to honour thine won, and I respect that. But leave me and mine in peace, and I shall leave you also. If you do not, the ruin of dragonfire wilt come upon thou, and know that ~~~~~~~~~ hast warned thou of the consequences."_

" _Eitha, sverd. Ono hethar né ilia vel thornessa deloi. Sverd daeamars, edtha kæfa silbena svartr onr. Ono eru mar aí sverd vanyalis svartr!"_ _  
_

 _"Begone, sword. You have no place in this realm. Sword of demond, I banish your dark mists! You are nothing but a sword of dark sorcery!"  
_

 **Oh ho ho! This is going to be epic later! Sorry, since I know what's going to be happening later on, this is extremely amusing to me. Everyone and anyone can try and guess who this person is!**

 **See you next chapter!**


	8. Chapter 8: Lightning won't strike twice

**Hey Guys! Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!  
**

' _This wouldn't have happened, if you had kept an eye on them.'  
'I know. But then again, they were going to leave, whether or not we kept an eye on them.'_  
The storm raged, wind whipping upon the rain, clawing at the fifteen living beings in its grasp. But up far, the strength was tenfold, battering dragon and her rider about in the grasping tendrils of lightning and thunder. Far below, living stone raged, giants battering each other into rubble with that which they were made. Upon them, dwarves and hobbit clung desperately, riding out the vicious shaking and crunching of rock to slate.  
Eragon's eyes were fixed upon the giants, observing the spectacle below, knuckles locked white about the spire of bone before him. Gem-drops of crystal-water thunked down, rolling off the sea-blue scales, dull in the dark overcast. Saphira was faring no better. The winds were worse than those on the Western sea, shoving her to and fro in the half-darkness, locking her to one position in the sky. There was an unspoken fear in both their minds: not of the height, but of the danger that lay beneath. Neither had seen the like, and all stories of giants they knew were haunting. Eragon could see the vague outline of a primal urge, deeply dispelled, in the depths of Saphira's mind. Before creatures such as this, both their lives were but as twigs in a summer storm, as were their bones. Behind them, lightning flashed and thunder crashed, the sound of earthquakes rippling the air.  
As illumination bled across the land, painting everything in whites, the pair saw Bilbo hanging from the rock face, clinging to the crags of granite, feet slipping against the smooth stone. In reaction, he could feel Saphira's muscles tense beneath his flesh, seeking to lock her wings against the wind and bring them below the hobbit. As she struggled, battered by bursts of gale and sheets of rain, the hairs on Eragon's neck stood up, and his entire body vibrated unnoticeably.

Three...

The wings bent at the joints, tilting them towards the company.

Two...

Closer and closer they drew, the tingling still there.

One...

Almost there.

A flash of light, scarring itself deep along their sight, raking heat against his skin, the Gedwëy ígnasia burning scorching bright. And the pain. A flash of inferno, searing cold and hot, racing his veins like crystalline fire. Plasma sparked around him. Flames burrowed through the soft llámarae, tearing it to embered shreds, cracking the leather of the saddle. As a cage, the sparks flickered, encasing the pair in frozen time, stiff and unmoving, their bodies unresponsive.  
Eragon's mind was sluggish, aware only of the pain, burrowing ever deeper within himself to escape it. Saphira's own mind was a blur of pain: sensations crashing over the link, as though searing away hide and flesh on her back. Amid the sparks and jolts, she landed on the mountainside, perched on an overhang beneath the dwarves.

She craned her neck back.

Upon the saddle, Eragon sat limp, breath ragged and shuddering. Peeking behind the sword on his back, a chain of white, linking neck to pelvis. Blood flowed freely through the gap, dripping amid rafters of bone. She panicked. His mind was weak, retreated far beyond himself, playing hide-and-seek with death, a game he would lose. Heated despair rushed through, upending all logical thought. Her chest tightened, mind trembling in fear. It couldn't happen. It couldn't. It wouldn't. She wouldn't let it. And with that came the fire. Frozen, resonating her body, scales singing pure. Light dimly flickering just beneath. Opening her maw, she let the flames come forth. But not as flames. For these did not burn, but settled upon her rider's skin like a mist, seeping through pore and wound. The skin flowed over, swirling closed, leaving a vortex of scars upon the skin. The white rippled, and twisted below the scar. Forks and branches settled out, lengthening along the skin, silvery white against the dull pink. Gently, as if a mother with her child, she lifted him from the perch above her shoulders to the ground, placing him on the cold stone, and coiled about, letting sleep sooth her worried mind, linked thoroughly to dispel all thought of solitude and doubt. In the raging of the storm, a sentry in sleep, guarding that which she valued more than any.

/

Blue. Blue everywhere. Eragon lay there on stone, curled up close to the warmth. Occasionally, heat would pop and spark, creeping over and under his skin. Why was the ground so cold? Where was he? He stretched his neck around, working out the kinks, registering the scaly hide and wings cocooning him. He smiled gently, huddling himself to the warm hide, lulled by the imperceptible humming that darted through the depths of his ears. For a while he remained thus, his mind wandering far, his breathing settling to the deep rhythm of rushing air, excluding all thoughts of past and worries of future. Only in the moment did he live, and that release was bliss. Idly, he traced the outline of silver on his palm, gliding around the mark, recalling its familiar shape, before continuing down his arm. As he moved further down, a strange buzzing shook slightly through his fingers. He stopped; so too did the vibrations. Glancing down, his eyes scanned over the pale skin of his arms. Twisting across the surface were forking patterns of silvery-white skin, akin to his gedwëy ígnasia, travelling back, arcing over his shoulders. From these bolts, strange golden curls stretched over his skin, from which more curled, growing ever smaller, disappearing into nothingness beyond his sight.  
As his mind sharpened, throwing off the last vestiges of sleep and exhaustion, his gaze turned to the rest of his body. Chiefly, he wasn't wearing his clothes. On his skin, a faint layer of grey remained, a faint dusting of dust or ash. At the waist, where a few scraps still remained, the edges were charred and uneven, as if shredded or eaten by fire.  
Sluggishly, he stood up, stretching his limbs, before promptly crying out from the exertion. His muscles felt like fire. Quickly, he released the position, settling back onto the ground, panting past the pain, letting the fire pour from his body. Around him, the wings and scales rustled, shifting, and the breathing quickened, indicating Saphira's return from the land of dreams. The membrane lifted past, exposing one sombre sapphire eye, relief and concern veiling the iridescent sheen. Gently, Eragon reached up, scratching the leathery spot of hide just behind her ear, receiving a low hum as his response. Leaning back against her side, he gazed down the valley, fixated on the ongoing sunrise, seeing the amber light play over the rocky slopes, casting light and shadow over crag and jut. Eragon could feel the words just under the surface of Saphira's mind, waiting for the right time. They were concerned, halting, rasping against her consciousness like sandpaper.  
' _You should probably say what you wish to say, Saphira. It feels as if the thought chafes you.'  
_ She huffed, glancing down at Eragon, a semblance of humour deep in her soul, if crushed by the distress she still held over the memory; Eragon astride her, back charred open, flesh cracked and blackened, ruby mixing with diamond, all dripping down into the onyx pit beneath.  
' _Do you… do you re-remember… what happened… in the s-storm?'  
_ He frowned, still scratching Saphira in the same place, sifting through the many memories from the tempest.  
 _'I cannot. I remember you diving to save Bilbo, but after that… everything went black. Why do you ask? You sound…hesitant.'  
_ Saphira huffed again, a slow inhale and exhale of breath, akin to a sigh, almost. Her body tightened, muscles coiled, her mind quivering with… fear? _  
'As we were diving… a-a bolt…of l-lightning hi-hit you. I-It was horrible. I couldn't move. I-I could feel you-your pain o-over the link, b-but I didn't know w-what had happened. W-when I…when I… when I landed here, you-you were…'  
_ Saphira's body twisted and writhed with her words, claws scrabbling unevenly on the stone, tail scraping hard on the , Eragon reached further, wrapping his arms around her neck, rubbing gently over the dim-lit scales, easing away the distress. _  
'What happened?'  
_ Saphira said no more, averting her gaze, instead projecting one image, one sight, and myriad emotions boiling beneath it: him, lying limp on the saddle, back torn open, sinew and muscle ripped apart, deep red liquid spurting and draining from the burnt and blackened skin, the stark white of rib and spine jutting out. His face was slack, lifeless, no motion or spark in its depths, only a head on a breathing corpse. But nothing compared to the accompanying thoughts. Fear, helplessness, distress, panic, dread, faint plans of possible futures echoing in the far beyond. Cracking back to reality, he realised Saphira was wracked with whimpers, crystal glistening in faint blue from her eye. _  
'I was so… so_ helpless _… just like_ that _…You would…You could have been gone… gone beyond where I could follow as I am. I didn't know how I would live. I didn't know how I could… without you.'  
_ Eragon said nothing, instead gazing beyond into the fiery sky, still massaging between and over the scales, drawing sadness, thick and deep, from her, comforting. Now it was his own turn to sigh. _  
'I know. I wouldn't have known what to do, either. We are one and the same; that we know beyond proof and doubt. But sometimes, I fear there will be a time when… when one of us will not wish to be saved.'_ he glanced back sorrowfully. _'I hope it will not come to that. The pain I feel, you feel… one day, it will be too much for you or I. I only wish it is eternity before that day arrives.'  
_ Saphira snicked open one eyelid, flashes of sad amusement in the aquamarine. _  
'When… when did you become so wise, Eragon? It is as if Oromis was lecturing me once more on life's inevitabilities.'  
_ Eragon chuckled slightly at that, shaking his head. _  
'No. Oromis understood it more than I, even now. I am just an echo, a memory of his knowledge, a tablet of the words, the true meaning of them locked away into the grave.'_ He was silent awhile, still staring off into the distance. _  
'I hope we see them again someday. Orik and Roran and Murtagh. Angela and Islanzadí, Tenga and Rhunon. The Urgals, the dwarves, the elves. Arya…'  
_ Saphira snorted slightly, genuine amusement on her face. _  
'Still pining, little one?'  
'Nay.'_ he shook his head, also smiling. _'Just wondering how she fared. With Galbatorix gone, will Nasuada step up to the throne? Or will they all devolve to civil war?'_  
There the smile dimmed, contemplations on his past settling back in his mind like sediment. _  
'Are they all still even alive? What happened within the walls, as we battled Galbatorix?'  
'Just let it go for now. The past cannot harm us. It is no use worrying over what may or may not have been.'  
_It was Eragon's turn to laugh now, digging slightly harder as his fingers rubbed over the warm, slippery scutes. _  
'Now who is doling out sage advice to the other?'  
_ She snorted once again, shaking her head slightly, freeing herself from the wandering pads. _  
'One of us must do it, or the other would be lost. And in most cases, it would appear to be me.'  
'Is that so?'_ _  
'It is as it must be.'  
_ Both descended to mild chuckles, laughing at nothing in particular, simply amused by the state of things. Eventually, rumination overtook the pair, thoughts of what now may be, or may not; concern for the rest of their travelling companions. Saphira assured she had not seen any fall past, but something still felt uneasy about it. There was something _more_ he was missing. It was well past the height of the day when both decided it would be best to set out once more, and begin searching for the company. Well, fully clothed, at least.

/

Through cloud and rain, wind and sky they flew, circling high around the mountains, moisture soaking through both of them, setting itself upon her scales as diamonds, ornaments on one that required none. The peaks of Caradhras and Celebdil loomed behind, as Eragon continued east, passing over Lake looking-glass, _Kheled-zâram, Nen cenedril_ , Mirrormere, the lake of Durin's crown, before winging onwards, rocky, lichen-ridden stone passing beneath the air, substantial as clouds, mere cracks in earth and juts of pebbles from the eyries of their flight.

It was not until they truly passed the mountains, that that which they sought came upon their eyes. Far below, mere ants to their sight, dragon's and rider's, rushing and scrabbling over fallen tree and boulder, pushing and shoving each other, escaping an unknown foe. The group ground to a halt, panting and gasping far below, leaning on trees and glancing back, back towards the mountains. Neither Eragon nor Saphira, worryingly, could see Bilbo among them. Perhaps he had fallen in the storm, after all (a depressing thought). Suddenly, vanishing from the void, as if simply stepping out from hiding, the Halfling emerged, conversing with the dwarves and wizard, a new look of understanding and determination on his face. The Took side had firmly taken hold.

Once more, then, they took off, winding between rock and trunk, vaulting logs and ducking branches, putting as much distance as they could between them and the mountain range. Their answer came as the wind shifted. Orc scent, thick and sludgy, bloody and filth-ridden, passed in waves on the air, permeating their nostrils, settling as tar down their throats. The sun lowered in the sky, yellow giving way to orange, orange giving way to red, dusk rapidly approaching. And with it came the filth themselves. Orcs on wargs, riding out in pack, traversing the unsteady landscape, leaping far in bounds, closing the distance between them in less and less time. As a tide, they swept across the land, drawing nearer and nearer. The sun passed the mountains, laying shade and darkness over the ground, masking the terrain and the dangers behind them. Far up, Eragon's mind raced, flitting from possibility to possibility, adopting and abandoning plans as fast as the lightning strike. They couldn't reveal themselves now. If he did, they would be forced to leave the company, if not for Saphira's safety, but his own.

Stuck in indecision, the pair watched as the group reached the cliff edge, and faded slightly among the branches, climbing high to evade the wargs. There was no way Saphira could land. The trees were too thick. Both knew it without saying. And with the dwarves in the trees, there was no question of it.  
Pale moonlight emerged from behind the clouds, shining faintly through the clouds, illuminating a single figure beneath: pale, towering, a monstrosity sat astride a white warg, even from here the smile visible, the iron claw of his hand, the sharpened, blood strewn mace.

Azog.

A single thought flashed through Eragon's mind. Reaching down, he unbuckled the straps on his legs, freeing his limbs from the saddle.  
' _Eragon? What are you doing?'  
_ He checked the harness at his hip and back, before leaning over the side, quirking a smile as he let the balance tip over.  
' _Stay here.'_

 **Okay, ordinary, not much to comment on, besides the entire lightning thing, of course.  
Next chapter: Eragon v Azog!  
**


	9. Chapter 9: proelium animorum

**Hey everybody! This seems to be an unnecessary token line, but again, I'm so sorry this took so long (if anyone's getting annoyed that I keep apologising, just flood the review tab. Your concern is duly noted.) Anyway, after a few rounds of writer's block and a few months, I'M BACK, BABY! Here's the finale of the first movie!**

Chapter 8

" _Pau gijakul_!"

The moon faintly shone behind the slated grey clouds, dark and faint light glowing between groaning tree branch and tossed pine needle. Far below them all, clawing and growling in frustration at the roots and bark, the wargs snapped and snarled, shredding heartwood and bleeding sap from the pines. Jars and cracks raced their way up the tree trunks, spreading out beneath the dwarves' feet on the branches. Claws ripped through branches, tearing them to the ground like tinder, dry as desert scrub.

The soil loosened, roots levering from below, exposing themselves to air, sending wood and dwarf tumbling to the next pine. More came through, trees like slabs of rock, tumbling down to ground, as they inevitably would. Dwarves leaped from tree to tree, gripping bark and clinging on, desperate to stay above the vice-like jaws.

Gandalf saw all of this below him, mind frantically searching for anything that would possibly be of use. All the other trees had been knocked down, leaving a wide, flat expanse. Would it be large enough for Saphira? But she was still either in Rivendell, or far behind, as was Eragon.

It would be near useless attempting to contact them, after already calling the eagles. He just had to hope they would come in time. Gaze alighting on the tree's own fruit, he plucked a pinecone from its hanging branches, crooning forth sparks and flame, rushing through the dry wood.

Aiming far, he hurled it, scattering among the wargs, amber flames licking hungrily at the unkempt and dirt-ridden coats of the mockeries. Taking another, he repeated the process, dropping the fiery ball to the company below him in the foliage, letting them take their pot-shots at the wargs.

A shadow over the moon caught his attention. A faint shape, outlined in moonlight, yet visible, gliding between the gaps in the clouds. Unmistakable, even at this distance. The barest hint of blue. Twinkling eyes wide in amazement, his mind shot out, spanning the distance in seconds, connecting and locking into awareness with the dragoness.

' _Saphira? How did you come upon us so quickly? You left far behind me.'  
_

A mental snort, dark humour, almost, in the face of the situation.

' _Don't underestimate a dragon's persistence. Something you should have learnt long ago, given your age_.' There he spluttered, a raised eyebrow all he could muster, his response a throaty chuckle.

' _It was not hard to find you, what with the orc pack snapping at your heels. Their stench is repulsive._ '

' _That it is indeed._ ' Gandalf chuckled back, splitting his eyes to the burning trees in front of him, before returning his attention.

' _Where is Eragon now?_ '

' _Diving._ '

Saphira cut off at that point, seemingly concerned with another speaker, leaving Gandalf wondering what quite she meant.

' _Diving?_ '

A sudden crack ripped his attention, as the trunk fell backward, hanging on with the few firmly twisted roots, groans and creaks in the wood reaching his ears, shouts of surprise echoing from the dwarves, as they rushed to wrap arms around branches and grab boughs.

Cast in the bloody light of the fire, Azog's looming pale figure, the scarred and twisted smile, was certainly a sight of terror.

" _Plag ranazu!_ "

The orcs, chattering incoherently amongst themselves, scuttling forwards with wicked scimitars, looks of sick glee on their mal-formed faces.

But as they drew closer, a whistling on the wind tickled the ears of dwarf, hobbit and wizard, growing louder and louder, cutting through the night air like a knife. All looked up. Against the dark background of the billowing clouds, a figure drew closer and closer, splitting the air, and ten words speared the night as thunder.

" _Letta hrata iet un breitha skjót-fœri iet til vindr!_ "

Immediately, fierce gales swept by the slowly-burning cliff-side, as if hurricanes from a dragon's wings, all but ripping the trees from the hard-packed soil. Desperately, the dwarves dug their hold on the wood deeper, clawing onto the tree with white-knuckled grips.

Lowering his metal claw, Azog saw the half-elf, panting slightly from exertion, a look of burning loathing and hatred in his eye. Behind him, the aura of anger, fierce as lava and vitriol, chomping and chewing through all, flared its wings, roaring its silent challenge at the Gundabad Orc. He smiled in savage pleasure. The elf drew his sword, still fixing him on that hateful stare.

"Azog." The word was malign, spat like foul gall, warped and twisted even more in its meaning.

"None of you will step closer. Your master knows not what I am capable of. Leave your malevolent goal, and return to him, with your tails between your legs. See what he makes of his prize general."

The smile soured, anger pumping in his veins, spittle flecking the orc's pale skin as he growled his response.  
" _Nadal iguzhismulab, karanzol-palay. Gothizub shofatlat. Bloglab kulat hol, agh krumab hat maushatlab. Shof gurzlab!_ "

* * *

The orc dismounted the warg, twisting his neck this way and that, the demonic grin still there, as he ran one finger along the ragged, bloodied edge of his weapon. Eragon widened his stance, gripping Brisingr's hilt firmly, fighting to keep his muscles from locking up.

He was acutely aware of the disadvantage he was at, and Azog could see it in him, growling darkly in sadistic pleasure. Eragon knew full well Azog was going to play underhand; he was an orc.

There was no point in returning the favour. Loosening his grip, he composed the words in his head, drumming his fingers by his calf to divert Azog's attention. The spell locked in place, he thrust out the silver, muttering the incantation with force.

" _Rótar, skaga!_ "

Spines of wood shot out of the ground, piercing through the orc's legs, spattering blood on the dark stone, eliciting a roar of pain from him, hatred flashing in those yellow, diseased eyes.

More erupted from the soil, forming thickets of brambly spines, blocking the smaller orcs from intervening. A small flicker of fear raced through Azog's head.

His master hadn't told him what this one was capable of. But it was buried and hidden deep under the burning hatred.

Slowly, intently, Eragon walked forward, staring up at the orc's leering face, flames crackling and burning both within and without. He stopped, placing Brisingr's tip on the orc's collarbone, angled up to the windpipe. All it would take was one thrust.

" _Eitha, un atra ilia thornessa aíran kenna kyn onr unin manin._ "

* * *

In the blazing fury, the dwarves watched the figure, the anger even visible in his stance and body. Thorin, especially, was in awe. Awe he despised himself for, but awe nonetheless. It burned him down to the bone like dragonfire.

The hate in the words hung in the smoke as choking gall, the anger sparking higher than the flames in the moonlight. His view, that tunnel he had looked down on the woodfolk for centuries, cracked. He scrabbled on the wood, gaining purchase and balance, view fixed on that pale monster.

An almighty presence came down as a shadow, cloaking the night in a darker, more malicious night. Eragon's body twisted, joints locking, sword dropping to the ground in convulsions. Thorin stopped himself, wide-eyed at the sudden change, confounded.

Then came the shaking. A booming roar, pain and anger, rippled down on the air, chilling, a promise of vengeance. The dwarves froze themselves, and Gandalf's voice could be heard muttering on the wind, wards of power against the presence.

"Gandalf…"

"Do not fear, Thorin. They are for us."

A cracking on the plateau. All eyes whipped back to the immobilized pair. Eragon was up against the ground, eyes rolled back to their sockets, unseeing. Azog there stood, sneering down at the limp form.

Thorin set his mind. Now wasn't the time for it. With the battle cry, he took a bough, drew Orcrist, and charged down the trunk, focus centred on that beast.

* * *

Storm. Clouds in his vision. Rustling whispers of calamity, snake promises of power. The dark vapour surrounds him, blocking out his sight.

"Get out, demon." He whispers, face set, holding the right hand out straight, the silver shining, sending the shadow flinching away.

" _You cannot destroy me, mortal. All will bow before me. And you are first."  
_

The clouds thicken, swirling and dancing mockingly, whipping past him, cutting with insubstantial pain, drawing blood across the unseen floor, forcing him to his knees, gasping, brittle laughter echoing in the dim turmoil.

A different presence rushes in his veins. It is anger; bloodthirst, but righteous, like the fury of the dragons in the wake of the Foresworn. The shadow flinches once again.

" _Armauk. Why do you stoop so low for one so small? He is insignificant."  
_

 _"He is not, Úmarthan. You won't succeed. Leave this being's mind at once.  
_

 _LEAVE."  
_

The mist shrieked, a piercing howl, and was rented from his sight, vanishing as the last echoes of the order faded to naught.

Focus returned. His vision flickered. Before him, he could see the outline of Thorin, sword in hand, standing firm against Azog, reams of dwarvish flying from his tongue. The thought entertained him that it was probably oaths of never getting into the same situation again. The humour went just as quickly.

He struggled. His limbs were lead; it felt still as if the fog had destroyed his muscles. Beside him, the glinting pommel of Brisingr brought his attention back. And with it will.  
Time slowed for him. He fought against the sludge, searching for an ounce of strength, screaming at his body to respond, to react, to work.

An impact on the ground. He sees Thorin fly back, slamming onto a ridge of rock, a cracking of bone audible even to him.

Pain.

An iron-ice spike in his neck. His body dangles like a cut puppet. Azog's leering smile fills his vision, a miasma of metallic stench issuing from the creature's mouth.

His hand moves. Grasping up at the iron rod, gripping tightly to the cold, rough metal. Energy crackled under his skin. All it would take was one gate.  
 _Crack.  
_

The door flooded, flowing faster than sight from hand to steel to flesh. Azog jerked, throwing him against the earth, mind free from influence. He scrabbled for Brisingr, putting himself between the orc and Thorin's unconscious form.

' _Eragon!'  
_

The mental bolt seared its way through his concentration, reminding him of their predicament.

' _This one is mine. Make sure the dwarves don't fall.'  
_ He was aware of the defiance in her mind, but it would not sway him in the present situation. Azog had recovered.

" _Garmadh gimbubatlat, karanzol-palay. Gothizub shofatlat. Mushof jishotasaunishi…"  
_

But there was no more to heard, for in that moment, an ear-rending screech tore air and threat.

The Eagles had come. They dove upon orc and warg, routing Azog's mindless drones. But there was no time for Azog to think on that.

For before him was where the danger lay. It was in the eyes. They were hollow, demonic. True fear was in him, for this was not the boy who had fought him mere moments before. This was another. And, true to that, so were the flames.

His sword was alight, but it was not the blue, writhing flames that scorched for the weak and oppressed. These were black, hateful and berserk, uncaring of what they destroyed. This was no man before him, or elf.

It was a demon. From his mouth, came words that chilled even the lingering presence of the Servant of Morgoth to his corrupted bones.

"Come, Azog, spawn of those death-dealing angels. You think you know bloodlust? You think you know hate?" Deep, sinister laughter echoed over the hills and down to the mines, where even the goblins cowered at the voice. It echoed over tree and under mountain, to the very ends of the earth.

But it was all in the eyes. They blazed with untamed rage, passion, fury, more than the fires that had sent Gondolin to its fall, or the ever-boiling pits of the Black Peak. His lips drew back, baring teeth in a feral expression.

"Pathetic."

Upon the tree, all shook in fear, especially Oín, for he, among the dwarves, remembered the warning as when he was Dwarrow.

' _Do not mock the dragon and his horde; do not mock his messenger. His eye sees all upon the land, his ear is always upon the stone. Elf, dwarf and man are not guarded from him. He is the creature that haunts dreams and slays the deceitful. He is Amraduzn; and all beings know his wrath, for it is their end. He is night and plague; he is that of the void beyond.'  
_

"So come, little orc, and let us see how much you value your life, _soa_ _."  
_

And among the towering pine boughs, his form danced and spun, clashing upon the mace, sparks flying as shards of steel embedded in the ashen boughs; and Gandalf, in faint memory, recalled the way Eragon had described Durza, the slain Shade.

Even he was afraid of what was before him. The animal smile was gone, replaced by a slight curve at the mouth, yet it was even more terrifying; it was sadistic, pure and simple; there was no other way of describing it. But there was no time for that, for the roots were giving way from the ground, and the Eagles circled and swooped, saving the dwarves and hobbit as they plummeted in the night air. Glancing once back at the blurred figure, a flash of the eye caught with his.

' _Go, Olórin. Let the Eagles carry you. I will guide this vessel back to you once my work here is done.'  
_

The smooth tones, flowing like the liquid crystal from the springs of the Undying Lands, laid on Gandalf's worries, calming him of the being's identity as he leapt from the wood, landing on an Eagle's back.

And still the battle raged, Saphira circling above the clouds, gazing down anxiously at the tiny figures. Eragon's mind was barred to hers, a metal barrier formed of jolting emotion keeping her out. She had heard that laughter echoing among the white clouds, and even she had shivered at its bloodlust. Even one as primal as her understood restraint; there was none such in that voice.

A cry of pain. There was Azog, upon the ground, blood spurting on the rocks from his clotted veins, a hand, still twitching, lying on the stone, the mace still in its grip.

Above him, the figure stood, staring down at the cowering form, apathetically twirling the blade. Shaking his head, he sheathed the sword, glancing once round the rock, checking for the presence of any remaining. There were none.

A sudden gust of wind and the inevitable shaking draw his attention. Before him, Saphira was crouched, hind legs tensed, ready to pounce, menacing growls emanating from her chest, equal anger blazing in her eyes.

' _Get out, daeamr."_ she snarled, marking the point by scouring the rock with claws, the sharp screech of slate cutting at their ears. The figure sighed, unbuckling both swords and flinging his arms wide.

"By all means, make me. But you will find it is a more difficult task than you anticipate, and requires a sacrifice you are unwilling to make." Gazing solemnly at those still burning sapphires, he lowered the arms, all bloodlust and ire gone from the hazel eyes. In her haze, Saphira noted there was a slight dust of gold within the eyes, but it was odd; the gold both burned with shining light, but seemed rotten, decayed, almost.

' _I do not care. You invade Eragon's body, after another had moments before, and proceed to drive him into the red mist? Why should I trust any word you say?'_

"Because this land needs us all more than you know, and there is less time than you think, _tilwin talante._ " The voice changed. It was less of Eragon's own, but rougher, coarser, like granite, weathered by time and evils. "I will leave, but you must know this, Saphira. I mean no harm to Eragon, nor any upon those you travel with. I only watch and wait for where the land permits I act."

The fog lifted, and a semblance of rationality returned to Saphira's mind. She still didn't trust the spirit that possessed her, but there was…something…something she couldn't quite grasp.

' _You will leave his mind, then?'_ she said, still eyeing him with a sharp stare, a reminder of consequences. Unexpectedly, he chuckled, shaking his head in slight amusement. _  
_"Yes, fair one. I will leave his mind. But first…" he closed his eyes, muttering silently into the wind. The last word was barely audible: _esse_. Tongues of flame raced from the embers, curling up on the dirt, morphing into symbols she recognised.

 _Maerr-madr skulblakistalryas.  
_

 _Amluguinaurchîr.  
_

The Lord of the Dragonfire.

"I am sorry for such a surprise, but it was necessary, Saphira. There is much you must know, with regards to how this world maintains itself.  
Sooner or later, I fear you will assimilate yourself to its will. The land does not comprehend a noble dragon, and the gods themselves fear for the consequences of your arrival.

Will you join Sauron, who lives in hiding, and give him a servant he desires, a tool to rebuild the dragons of Middle-Earth? That is what they fear you will do.  
You and Eragon" he gestured to his own body "are the two beings upon this stone only truly understood by Eru. The gods fear, Saphira. And that is not how the world works."

She was silent, gazing at the smouldering flames on the rocks. Finally, she replied.

' _Why should I? There is no being higher than the dragons. Look upon my memories, if you wish.  
_ _Our own world was embroiled in war, a war entirely avoidable, had but one higher power set themselves against Galbatorix in his youth.  
But they did not come.' _she spat bitterly, ' _Even the image of Helzvog, who I witnessed myself at the coronation of Eragon's blood-brother's coronation, did not interfere. What good is a hero or god, if they will not fight?'  
_

"Heroes are not warriors, Saphira. They are the people that resist the darkness, and they fight by small deeds, pushing back the evil one day at a time." He turned around, gazing sorrowfully up at the moon.

"But some will not accept that. They think that the answer is to crush their enemy on the battlefield; but they are hypocrites, for in their blind faith, they are corrupted themselves." He paused, and glanced back.  
"The moon did not exist in this land, once, or the sun. The Valar, our gods, guided themselves through this land with lamps, awakening life with every step, bringing forth spring. It was a rich time" he paused again, savouring the memory "and none but that great evil, Melkor, dared taint it.

Forever after, evil has blighted this land, and the land has fought against that evil in many ways. Sword and sorcery, element and life, battle after battle was fought for the sake of the land." He chuckled again.

"But what use is an army if the people they fight to protect are empty inside?" He turned round again, waiting for a reply from his audience, smiling to himself as he hummed a resonant tune; the very earth seemed to accompany the solemn notes, and Saphira swore she could see figures wavering in air, ghostly shapes with sculpted faces and heavenly voices.

Her mind wandered in the melody, the very magic of her being screeching to be free of the needed chains that bound it to the flesh, screaming in protest to join the song, to be a part of that primordial harmony. It faded, leaving only an echo of an echo, a memory of the strife and bliss.

"Well? How do you answer?"

She looked up at him.

 _I do not think I can trust your intentions, old one, if what the tales say is true. But I am willing to let this happen, so long as you promise me this; no harm shall come to Eragon, in mind or body, when you preside within my own, and that you have no evil designs on our power. Promise me that.'  
_

He smiled.

"Give me the words, and I will swear thus."

 **So? Epic, right?  
Anyway, for all aspiring detectives, we have more clues of a certain lord's identity! Fun! (I bet you all know who it is by now, so just PM me with the answer if you think you know)**

 **Translation!  
** " _Pau gijakul_!"  
"Kill them all!"

" _Plag ranazu!_ "  
"Cut the roots!"

" _Letta hrata iet un breitha skjót-fœri iet til vindr!_ "  
"Dissipate my speed as wind!"

" _Nadal iguzhismulab, karanzol-palay. Gothizub shofatlat. Bloglab kulat hol, agh krumab hat maushatlab. Shof gurzlab!_ "  
"Stop your weak insults, elf-scum. My master sees you. May maggots eat your rotting flesh. Look upon your death!"

" _Rótar, skaga!_ "  
"Roots, project!"

" _Eitha, un atra ilia thornessa aíran kenna kyn onr unin manin._ "  
"Begone, and may this land know your kind only in memory."

 _Armauk:_ enemy

 _Úmarthan:_ ill-fated one

 **One answer to a lack in translation: call it plot-centric info. I'm not holding your hand any more. If you want the good stuff, you have to get it by your volition. As they say, no pain, no gain.  
**

 **With that out of the way, and ignoring the previous comment, I have a request for anyone and everyone that passes through this chapter, and this goes especially for my followers: What is it about the story that has you hooked? I ask, only because I want to know why you like it, and so I can aim my focus on what you enjoy, and cut out the unnecessary pieces. All I ask is a simple, 'it's interesting' or constructive criticism ( _especially_ constructive criticism). In truth, it gets hard for me to continue these longer stories without support, and I'm sure many other writers feel the same way.**

 **Farewell, comrades. I will see you all at Beorn's Homestead.**


	10. Chapter 10: Dancing with madness

**Hellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo Earth!**

 **I am SO, SO sorry for the sabbatical! Needed to clear my head after the exams. Ok, admittedly, I took my sweet, sweet time doing it, but I'M BACK, BABY!**

 **Ok, first off, this is a relatively short chapter, compared to what you're used to from this story. I'm trying to organise my thoughts for what's coming up, as well as way off stuff that affecting the story. Suffice to say, there are a lot of surprises in store!**

 **Oh, and second? Thank you so much for all the support! You guys do realise this is my second story, right? I'm not sure you're looking in the right place for a seasoned author.**

 **But joking aside, thank you for supporting and putting up with my incessant impulse to make half of the story unreadable. And yes, I am talking about the paragraphs of death.**

 **Onwards!**

* * *

 _'Is it safe?'  
_

 _'It is the safest place in these parts. We will be well guarded.'  
_

 _'For Eragon's sake, I hope you are right, Gandalf. He has not woken yet. I fear whatever foul spirit put him under this curse, its desires have not been fully thwarted.'  
_  
Leaving the conversation there, Saphira glanced back, examining his limp body.  
Same pale face, same unseeing eyes, shivering in the cold night air. It had been days since the battle with Azog, and he was not getting any better.

And worse still, just as she could feel the remnants of that blackened demon festering in the back of her mind, it was growing in his, like a parasite. It just stayed there, like tar, coating her mind, muddling her thoughts, clouding memories, twisting her emotions. She was only glad that its growth in Eragon was more subdued. She had her suspicions, but nothing certain; Naergongyl, as the spirit had named himself, had spoken of a protector, a guardian. _  
_

But now wasn't the time for that. Below her, the short two-legs-round-ears and tall-grey-spirit-Gandalf were running. She shook her head. Were they running? Gandalf had sounded his usual self, unhurried if exhausted. Why was he running now? What was chasing him? _  
_As if aware of her thoughts, a massive bear broke from the underbrush, fur ragged, and a manacle on its left forepaw. Manacle? _  
_

Snapping back, she saw the dwarves fleeing behind the oaken doors, as the bear roared at the wood, pounding, scratching, furious. Watching impassively from above, Saphira circled amidst the clouds, waiting for the creature to leave. It disappeared into the forest, blending with the black boughs. _  
_Settling in the large garden, she glanced back, gazing at her partner's limp frame. Naergongyl had healed the cut in his neck, but it was painfully obvious how weak his body was. Pale, bruised, still. The old fear flickered in the darker corners of her mind. She dismissed it. _  
_

Staring up longingly at the sky, she watched the sun pour gently through the rustling trees, painting the green of the garden in orange, like gentle fire. _  
_Against the silence of the evening, voices whispered on the wind, suffusing the air with memories. Memories she had forgotten to the dangers of this new land. _  
'You don't know? Ha! There's a fine jest. It's not because of you. It's because of her.'  
'You have grown to a fine adulthood. Do you remember this place?'  
_

She shook herself from those thoughts, ridding the memory of the men that had spoken them. If they even could be called such anymore. Quietly, the oaken door shut, drawing her attention. There, between the pillars, four of the Halflings were cowering, peeking out from behind the beams that supported the lengthy porch. _  
'I will not harm you, friends. If you wish to speak, you may speak in the open air.'  
_

The four slowly sidled from behind the wooden obscurance. Fíli, Kili, Balin, and Bilbo, she noted, staring at each in turn. Quietly, the blonde of the group piped up. _  
_"We just want to say thank you… on behalf of everyone. Thank you for saving us." _  
_She paused, examining them again, drilling deep through their eyes. She relaxed her gaze. _  
'It is of no consequence. Like many we knew, you fight for what should be. I wish to thank you, also.'  
_

Fíli was rendered speechless. Indeed, they all were, as none could understand the reason. Bilbo's voice was heard against the silence. _  
_"But…why? What did we do for you, for Eragon?" _  
'You accepted us. That, in itself, is truth to our existence.'_ She said, before continuing. _'It proves that we are still needed, whether it is here or elsewhere.'_ She fell silent, gazing at the soft sky, scarred with white clouds, burning away slowly in the sun's last shreds of light. The four fell silent also, ruminating in the chill air, knowing there was more they wanted to say, but they did not know the words to express it. Finally, Balin found his tongue. _  
_"Will he be well?" _  
_She glanced over solemnly, gaze downcast. _  
'I can only hope so, Balin. But it seems that there are unseen hands at work in our favour. I have faith that he will heal in time.'  
_

If he will ever, she added privately.

They nodded, mulling over the new information with no little curiosity. Who was Saphira referring to? The spirit that had possessed her rider's body? Balin made a note to himself to question Gandalf on the matter. _  
"_ Is there nothing we can do? Surely there is some cure."

Saphira snorted at that, the ridge over her left eye rising slightly before her expression returned to something more sincere.  
' _You heard Gandalf as clearly as I did, Balin. The physical injuries have been healed. It is the wounds upon the mind and the soul that have yet to close.'  
_ An involuntary shiver ran up her back, rattling her scales like a wind chime in the gale. She was scared, yes; she feared for Eragon's safety, for his health, for the soundness of his mind.  
But this was a more primal fear. This was something else entirely.  
Already, she could feel the cold encroaching on her lungs. It burned cold, raging in a feverish heat against her own spirit.  
The fear of corruption. The one thing Saphira thought she would never feel.

It terrified her.  
 _'It will seem like nothing at first, a mere presence in the darker confines of your mind. But it will spread. Slowly and surely, it will gather pace. And if too late, you will be overcome. Sauron seeks your strength as his own, a weapon in the war to come. I can save you, but it must be in person. You know wherein I dwell.'  
_

Deep down, she knew the spirit's words to be true. The darkness in her mind crept ever closer to her mind, to the seat of her soul, minute by minute. A part of her, the rational part, wanted to fly away, to seek Naergongyl's aid, to purge herself of the corrupting tar. But she couldn't bear the thought of Eragon waking, finding her gone, left to assume the worst.

' _ **Enough!** You know full well he wouldn't think that. He would be worried, undoubtedly, but he would never believe you abandoned him.'  
_ Even so, as she repeated that mantra to herself, the tiniest seed of doubt wormed its way into her mind.  
"Saphira?"

Shaken from her internal argument, she regarded the four Halflings, banishing the fear from her mind. It was best for them not to see it; With Eragon in such a condition, and the revelation of Azog's survival, they needed all the morale they could get.

' _Tell Thorin I am thankful for putting aside his animosity. Also remind him that if he means to attempt anything against us, my offer to hang him over Mount Doom and drop him into lava still stands.'  
_ Baling simply stood there, an unreadable tightening of the lips the only indication of humour, while the two brothers were somewhere between side-splitting laughter and wide-eyed terror.

' _They so easily forget the obvious; I am still a dragon, after all.'  
_ All too soon, though, the humour bled from the air, leaving the five in a silent garden, with nought but the rustling of the leaves and the moaning of the wind to remind them that it was the dead of night.

One by one, the halflings crept back inside, Fíli and Kíli shivering in the cold night air, despite the thick clothes that covered them. Eventually, only Balin remained.

 _'Are you not cold?'  
_ It isn't so bad when you get to be my age. Things like heat and cold…they remind you that you still live, and you can still act." A drawn look impressed itself on his features. "I only hope to see the day we can live in Erebor once more."  
In her chest, the flame that burnt within her leapt in sympathy.  
' _We still owe you an explanation.'  
_

Balin's only response to that was laughter.  
"That is unneeded. I always had a feeling about Eragon, anyhow. There was something about him I couldn't quite understand. Still don't, in honesty."  
He could almost feel the raised eyebrow at that statement.  
' _And our little encounter in the Trollshaws?'  
_

"I knew then that something was afoot between you two." He replied, notes of humour still threading their way through his voice. "Something didn't sit right about the way he acted, put against the way he talked about dragons." Baling shrugged. "Forgive the ramblings of an old dwarf; the night air always makes me reminisce."  
Saphira accepted the apology without further reply, her focus already turned inwards, back to the raging flames of her internal struggle with the infection of that which had once been Mairon.

/

 _"Why must we part, beloved? The shadow is gone: Arda is safe once more. Stay with me, and watch the world grow and flourish. We will live in the great trees of Lindórinand, and remember the splendour of the forests of Valinor."  
_

 _"I cannot, dear one. I love you dearly, more than the light of the two Trees, and their memory. But I cannot. I cannot linger with you. Though I know, even if you were to die, you would return, but I cannot bear the thought."  
_

 _"So stay with me, and make our lives well-lived, so that we are regretless when Mandos finds us in his halls."_

 _"Urusulu, please. Stay with me."_

 _"I cannot, Altáriel. You are still young and rash, by the standards of your kind. I know you always loved Teleporno. Stay with him, live out your days in those golden woods."_

 _"Altáriel…"_

 _"Please…Urusulu…"_

 _"Peace. I weep also, Altáriel. But I must begone, to undo the wrong of Melkor. The creatures he warped, they are what I must kill and save."_

 _"What creatures? The Balrogs are dead, the orcs cower in the tunnels, filth that they are. What else must you do?"_

 _"Mandënya mauyasan. Varyanye nossénya."_

 _"And who is it you consider your kin, Urusulu?"_

 _"You should know well, for what in form did you find me?"_

 _"I löcéi."_

 _"Lá. Sí mecin, Altáriel, á auta. Veluvarngwe nan. Namárië."_

/

Soft morning light filtered through the wooden slats, picking the dust and pollen out in the air in little specks. Faint noises ran around the barn, jumping in the beams and walls, echoes of noisy and unmannered eating. Sprawled on a hay mound, the last sleeping member of their little group opened his eyes slowly, squinting in the bright sunrise.

Across the hall, Thorin watched with concealed interest, pretending to engage in the conversations that were running circles around the wooden table.  
Scowling to himself, the dwarven prince raised the tankard of milk to his mouth, still observing the half-elf over the rim of his cup.

Although he would never admit to a living soul, Thorin… held a modicum of respect for their wood-folk guardian. Despite the way he had acted, as the days after they had left that little town in the Shire, he had found a small part of him warming up to the elf.  
He certainly hadn't guessed things went this deep, though.

Sighing internally, he set down the tankard, watching him stumble gracefully (how the elves managed their gracefulness, that was beyond him), onto the table in the barn, sitting down, eyes vacant.  
Watching carefully as his nephew passed over a tankard, Thorin cast an appraising eye over this mysterious member of their group.  
He had found the elf's claim of killing dragons frankly absurd, but there was something that stopped him shy of declaring the elf a fraud.

The eyes.

They were the eyes of a being haunted by ghosts of their past, something Thorin knew all too well. In his younger days, he had had little motivation to fight. He enjoyed sparring against the guard, but that was it. He certainly didn't think he would have been fighting for his life against Azog outside the gates of Moria, his grandfather's head thrown at his feet.  
But, if that was something the elf before him had seen… he couldn't well label him a coward.

So he had said nothing, merely watching to see how the elf acted; how he interacted with dwarves, how he fought.  
He had been pleasantly surprised by the elf's fighting abilities, being able to hold off both Fíli and Kíli, at once, with only a dagger.

The vision still amused him immensely; his two blood-kin, piled on the ground in Rivendell, sporting bruises all over, and stripped of all weapons, daggers of many makes scattered around the training ground, evidently useless against the superior _Elda._

After they had left, he hadn't honestly given Eragon much thought, and the chaos in the goblin tunnels didn't help.  
But between the encounter in the Trollshaws and the battle on the cliffs, he knew Eragon was more than he appeared. That was no act of his ring; that dragon had understood him, listened to _him_. From that moment forward, he'd known there was something more about the elf, and he was determined to find it out.

And with the displays against Azog, with the flaming sword and the tree roots, Thorin was ever more convinced. As it stood, he had half a mind to demand the truth from the elf then and there, courtesy be damned.

If it wasn't for the dragon.

He refused, on principle, to use the beast's name (the fact that it was female made the situation worse; A _female_ drake? As far as he knew, Smaug was the last dragon alive. He didn't need drakelings all over the land, swarming the Blue Mountains.).

But, he had to admit to himself… she was certainly a fierce one. She had threatened to toss him into Mount Doom, by Aulë's beard! The nerve!  
' _Stop this foolishness at once, Thorin! She is a dragon!'  
_

And yet, a part of him respected her strength. Though he thought Gandalf a fool, (a senile old coot, to quote his original comment), for trusting the drake, it was glaringly obvious that she had no love of treasure.

' _A dragon without gold-lust…'_ he shook his head, banishing the thought from his mind. She had to be lying. She was playing them. Drakes were manipulative; he knew that.  
His brewing thoughts were interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder. He already could guess who it was.

"Do you not have an elf to be attending, Master Wizard?"  
"There are more pressing matters at hand, Thorin." Gandalf replied darkly, in tones barely above a whisper.  
"How so?"  
"Saphira has left. She is heading for the Withered Heath."

His eyes widened momentarily before the unruffled mask slid back into place.  
"And this concerns me why, exactly?"

"Because there is something far worse coming."  
Something about the way Gandalf said that sent chills up Thorin's spine. Gandalf stooped, his cracked lips just beside the prince's ear.

"The Necromancer desires her. He is coming out of hiding, but by fleeing, Saphira has set his sights upon us. We must leave, and quickly."  
A sudden crash drew their attention. There, at the end of the barn, the doors stood wide open, and a lone figure sprinted out the gates, framed by the overhanging branches.

None of the dwarves needed to look to see who had fled.  
There was an empty tankard on the table, next to Fíli, who was currently on the floor, the bench he had been sitting on broken.  
Gandalf's heart fell even more. Eragon had obviously taken off, in desperate pursuit of Saphira. But he was only putting himself in more danger by doing so.  
He was wandering into Mirkwood, with nobody to guide him.

* * *

 **Umm...yikes.**

 **Yeah, I kinda went overboard here. There's a lot you could glean from that italics passage, (like, for example, how** **Altáriel is another name for Galadriel... _THE_ Galadriel... now doesn't that spike your interest?)**

 **Also, on a completely separate note, who would be mad if I said I wanted Shadow of Mordor to make an appearance at some point in the far future? (Tolkien hardcore fans, I'm looking at you)**

 **Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter! Next time, we get to see Eragon trying to not die in Mirkwood! Fun, right?**

 **...Yeah, I need to work on sarcasm.**

 **Have a good day!**


	11. Chapter 11: Of Councils and visions

**Umm...Sorry for taking so long?**

 **But seriously, I am very sorry for being away from this story for so long. It sort of passed my mind after the last chapter, and then when I got back, I had to change where I wanted it to go. Not fun.**

 **But besides that, I hope you enjoy, and let me just say, for those that haven't realised, that I don't update on any time schedule. I write when my muse tells me to; so sometimes I'm fast, and sometimes I'm basically dead.**

* * *

Silence clung to the company around the table like a heavy cloak. Milk spilt across the flagstones, seeping through the cracks and soaking the bedding straw and the hide of Fíli's shoes. Around the table, the dwarves were seized; a certain catch in the depths of their strong lungs, a slight, damp chill creeping up the small of their hairy backs, and seen by all in their eyes; a question that, if at all possible, they would rather not be answered.

Thorin gazed out at the open gate, its leftmost door hanging from its lower hinge, the great iron bolt ripped cleanly from its housing, and knew, in the pit of his stomach, that however much he despised Wood-folk, that they were going to be pursuing him.

Quest or not, and all false faces aside, Eragon was still an elf. In their grace and their beauty, unmatched, and deadly upon the bloody plains of war. An elf, however loath he was to concede it – and he was, and had good reason too, for the memory of the Elven King, Thranduil, still burned cold with contempt in his mind - was a valuable ally to guard your back, if you trusted them to do so.

Thorin, though, was not of such an opinion. He trusted elves about as far as he could trust Bombur to let unattended food lay idle – Not at all. However, Eragon was of a different breed – if only slightly. Perhaps something in the set of his jaw, or the gleam in his eyes. Regardless, he had already proven himself useful to their journey – indispensably so, he might add, with the skirmish on the slopes of the Misty Mountains.

As Thorin's mind returned from his inner musings, he saw his company still sitting there, idle, and looking closer, he saw the flickering of a doubt – or was that fear? – in their eyes, and passing in undercurrents through their chattering.

Yes, there was fear. His brothers knew somewhat less of the elf; they had been content to let him pass from their attention after their meeting in the Shire, after all. They hadn't seen through the varnished exterior of the elf – just an elf, like any other – to the warrior within. They hadn't thought to.

And so, Thorin did what all great leaders do. He set his tankard down upon the table weightily, letting the ponderous ringing of its iron base drown out the mutterings in his ranks.

"The elf has ridden out." Thorin spoke, no louder than he would normally. "He has set off in pursuit of his drake." He pinned Balin specifically with a level gaze. "Had the elf given his signature to the contract, he would have now revoked his share of the spoils, and we would not be obligated to search for him." He leaned in, and looking at each of the dwarves in turn, and settled just a tad longer on Bilbo, and sighed slightly to himself, incredulous that he had even found himself in this position. "For the sake of the coming vote, we shall act as if Eragon had signed the contract at Bag-end."

Gandalf's eyebrows rose into his hat, though none of the dwarves saw it, as they were all in varied states of stupefaction. Most had let their jaws hang free, while Bifur had taken to providing an amusing commentary in fractured Khuzdul, complementing his speech with a series of increasingly rude hand gestures. Even Beorn, who had moved away from the table of dwarves and to his livestock, turned around, observing the Dwarven prince with a contemplative gaze, a hand resting on the mane of one of his horses.

For a moment, Thorin sat silent, his face a stony cap on a swirling vat of emotion, wrestling down his pride.  
"Bilbo Baggins." He said finally, watching the hobbit's head shoot up to face him. "You will give your opinion on our wayward member and vote. Should Eragon be cast from the company?"

Bilbo swallowed and briefly looked around the table, at a loss for words. His eyes lay briefly on Thorin and Gandalf, and then he looked out the door, watching the grass waving silently on the plains, lost to his thoughts, like they all were.

"I think…" he began, and swallowed again to wet his throat. "I think Eragon is a good person." His remark was met by raised eyebrows, and he barrelled onward. "He may not have been honest with us, and he might not have been all that familiar, o-or approachable. And yes, the orc almost killed him." Bilbo here sighed and met Thorin's gaze hesitantly. "But he is brave. He stood for us against the orc, he didn't give in. If he was angry at you, Thorin, he put it aside there." Bilbo's back straightened, and the little hobbit seemed to grow a few inches. "So no. I say no. To me, Eragon still has the right to remain in the company."

Thorin regarded the Hobbit for a moment, eyes neutral, and then he looked over to Glóin.  
"Glóin, son of Gróin. Give your opinion and cast your vote."

The fire-bearded dwarf stayed silent awhile, staring down at his own fingers, watching his thumbs twiddle away.  
"The lad's a maniac." He stated fiercely, though, like Thorin, no louder than a speaking tone. "Come on, you can't not have seen the look in 'is eyes." He put to the Company. "A dervish, he was. Swinging those swords around, chopping those orc's blocks off." He spat, the glob of phlegm landing in the straw. "The way I see it, he's not the most talkative. But if he's running off, then I reckon he's running after something valuable to him. So let him run off and find what he's lost." He settled his fingers. "I vote in favour, and think that it'd be cruel to run him down for that. Just let the lad be."

Next in line, Thorin's gaze settled on his nephews, and nodded slightly, indicating for the pair to speak. The two brothers huddled over the table-corner, muttering heard faintly by their Uncle and the rest of those in the ring. They then separated, turning round to face Thorin, son of Thráin.

"We agree with Bilbo." Fíli began, his eyes fixed on the mail-shirt peeking through Thorin's cloak. "Eragon should stay. He's stayed with us this far, and he never even signed the contract." The twins glanced at each other once and ploughed on. "And…we like him. He's brave, loyal. Stubborn, too." Fíli grew silent here, although he gave the impression of something left unsaid. Kíli gave him a withering glare, and smiled nervously at his uncle. "We both think he'd be a good dwarf."

Something sparked in Thorin's eyes at that comment, and the lines of his face grew drawn, and from the look in the eyes of his kin, it was evident they thought their words had raised the ire of their uncle. Thorin stayed silent a long time after that, and then, finally, turned to the next around the table, letting the two of them sit.

This continued on. Next came Bofur, who voted against, saying much the same things as Kíli and Fíli, though in more words and less confidence.

After him came Bifur, his cousin, who, though nothing of value was spoken in Westron, a flurry of Khuzdul broke out across the table. To Bilbo, it seemed like Bifur's opinion was disagreeable to black-haired Kíli, and a round of unintelligible arguments hammered their way around and back and across the table. In the end, the speckled-headed dwarf voted in favour.

Bombur, who spoke after him, voted against, and merely stated that Eragon was a good cook.

Óin was then called. He spoke little, merely voting in favour and staying silent.

Nori then stood. He voted in favour, and went on to speak about, though he had nothing against their missing member, he felt the quest was more important. His brothers glanced askance at him, and the glare Thorin levelled at him seated him quite forcefully.

After him came Dori. He too voted in favour, stating that he believed, and had from the beginning, that they had not needed outside help, elven or otherwise, to complete their quest.

Ori then stood timidly and voted against. He opened his mouth to voice his mind, but it soon closed before any words of substance could escape.

Balin then stood.

"I vote in favour." A current of murmurs echoed his choice. Balin sighed, his form drooping, and then drew himself up. "Eragon has been a welcome addition to our company, yes, though we did not ask for him." Here he paused, glanced once at Thorin, and then out of the window, gazing at the flattened bed of grass in the garden clearing. "But as Glóin said, he is just a lad." He gazed around the table, a sad look in his eyes and in his smile. "He might have seemed a weathered traveller, but did any of you see him at Rivendell? The wonder on his face?" Balin shook his head. "I reckon him barely of age." He whispered dolefully; a glistening in the corner of his eyes the only clue of a tear. "Just let him be."

Thorin's gaze then turned to Balin's brother, Dwalin. The tanned and tattooed dwarf stood, his fierce, stony gaze unflinching against his Prince.

"I vote against." He pronounced, his voice drowning out all the noise in the room. Balin fell silent and still, eyes resigned, and even Thorin's gaze seemed to waver, just for an instant. "Elf or not, Drake-rider or not, Eragon is a warrior." His eyes grew stormy. "As much as I want to clobber the blighter for tricking us, he had his reasons." Dwalin's voice grew shaky here, his hand twitching to his belt. "And though I hate them, I know why he had them." Dwalin paused, the younger dwarves hanging on his every word, as he stilled his arms. Finally, he met Thorin's gaze again. "He is a warrior – nay, a champion. He has my respect, as long as I can grind his bones into dust first."

From his post at the broken door, Beorn half-listened, waiting for Thorin – the last of their dwarven company, and the leader – to speak.

Thorin himself was unsure, for one of the very few times in his long life. His choice would tip the scales; either it would be a matter closed, or a tie, and then they would be here longer, too long for his liking, with Azog just behind him.

 _Azog._ Just the mere thought of that filth made Thorin's blood bay, and his heart weigh heavy with loss. He hoped Eragon had killed that kin-killer and left his body to burn.

Reluctantly, he pushed away his thirst and vengeance, to clear his mind or the decision he had to make. Like Dwalin, he could respect Eragon as a warrior. Although his way of fighting bore more resemblance to those of mannish origins, than of elvish, it was efficient and merciless. Glóin's description of a dervish really was quite apt. And, though he might think of Eragon was not trust, it was far more than he would afford to any other elf he had met.

But, like Balin, he had seen the wonder in the elf's eyes, and he was reminded of Gimli, Glóin's son, and the faintest prick of guilt wormed into his breast. This venture was not for youth, and it certainly wasn't a fanciful story that a dwarf-maid would sing to her babe. There would be bloodshed, and perhaps death, too. Not something to subject a hot-headed youth to.

And then, his nephews.

 _A good dwarf_? Thorin sighed. They were still so young; even their presence on this journey was the result of a struggle, the cause of which he was now reminded of. So much to learn. So naïve. He briefly wondered whether it would reflect badly on him to threaten to feed them to the now-fled drake.

Slowly, each in turn, from kin to friend, he regarded to other members of his company, and within himself, and against his better, calmer judgement, he made his choice.

"I vote against."

The table burst into shouting, and Bilbo covered his ears sharpish, wincing with the sudden spike or noise that drove its way through his ears. Gandalf, who had watched the whole affair unobserved, smiled to himself and recalled the tale Eragon had recounted of his previous adventures.

The lad did seem to have a certain way with some types of people, no matter what race they were. He needed only think of the dwarf king Eragon had spoken of, Orik, or the Urgal chieftains.

"Enough!" Thorin shouted, slamming his fist down on the table, crushing the rising tide of noise with it. "We go through Mirkwood. Should we find Eragon on our way, we take him with us." A grumble of assent came from all the dwarves in the room, and Thorin smiled slightly to himself. It heartened him to know that even when divided, his company were loyal.  
"Fíli, Kíli, take his things." Thorin, son of Thráin, ordered them, the echo of his father and grandfather's leadership clear in his posture and voice, should one know where it would be found. "We set off at once, before the orcs run us down!"

The two brothers nodded vigorously, rushing off into the back of the house of Eragon's weapons, while Bilbo looked on in confusion. The dwarves we up and running, shouting and gathering their packs and weapons. Axes and hammers were retrieved, knives sheathed and bows unstrung, ready for travel.

From his spot at the table, Bilbo felt Thorin's cold gaze on him.

"Go to find the stables and saddle the ponies, burglar. We must be off with haste."

Nodding his head shakily, Bilbo rushed out of the door, in pursuit of Beorn, who had heard their intention, and was already off. Gandalf was close behind, and the dwarves piled through the door after them, Thorin at their rear.

The line of dwarves, in loose file, trooped between the trees, at a hard pace set by Beorn's long gait, since the ponies were pastured a ways away, and the tack with them.

Gandalf, being the oldest, had dropped his pace quickly; slowly, but surely, drawing nearer to Thorin. The dwarf prince stayed silent for a long time, letting his tempo wither slightly to keep in time with the wizard, though not enough to lag behind the last few of his Company.

Glancing over, Gandalf's eyes - which were more observant than most beings, living or otherwise – saw a great many things. The fresh blow to the side of Thorin's head, still red after his scuffle with Azog. His gaze; deep, unseeing. Almost sorrowful. But most of all, Gandalf saw the glint of ruby blood seeping out from between Thorin's fingers, smearing his skin angry red.

Did Thorin also hate that Eragon had lied to him? Or was it something deeper? Did he feel guilty for not chasing his suspicions, and knowing that, in some small way, he was responsible?

Gandalf did not know. He was not wont to peer into other minds, as others had done before him, or like the sorcerers of Eragon's own home.

"How old is he?"

Gandalf found then Thorin's eyes on him, burning still with something indescribable; emotion so molten and stirred, it resembled little more than waves in a storm; dark, and crested with white spume.  
The wizard sighed. No matter what answer he gave, the wizard knew Thorin would only grow more incensed, doubly so if he didn't. The only thing he could try was to tamp down the dwarf's raging mind. To that end, he chose his words awhile more, letting his feet carry him along.

"Young." He murmured at last, meeting and matching the gaze of the dwarven prince. "You must understand, Thorin. Eragon is not an elf by nature, as peculiar as it sounds."  
Thorin merely raised one eyebrow.  
"I did not think that elves possessed the means to create an elf from a man."

"They do not." Gandalf replied, and looked back up at the dwarves they were following, and then frowned, realizing what he had just heard, and looked back down at Thorin. "How did you know that?"

"His jaw." Thorin countered. "I did not remember quite exactly the shape of an elf before we arrived at… that place." He bit out. "But I saw him speak with a few of them during our stay. It was too rugged, not at all like the others." His voice grew dark once more. "I ask again: How old is Eragon?"

Gandalf sighed and looked back down the line of dwarves, and his face lit up slightly; for there, coming into view, were the ponies. Thorin's gaze followed his, and the line of his mouth tugged down more. The old wizard's voice floated by his ear.

"We will speak at greater length on the ride."

He frowned even harder but checked his twitching hand. The ride to Mirkwood's gate was long; the map reckoned them a good twenty leagues from the old forest path. He would get his answers in time.  
"Thorin?"  
The black-haired dwarf sighed; casting his eyes up to Balin's wizened face.  
"How much of that did you hear?" He asked pointedly. His old, white-bearded friend directed his gaze to the earth. Looking around, he was glad to see none of the other of his company seemed to have heard his conversation; they were too busy saddling the ponies. He leaned in, gripping the hem of Balin's shirt.

"Speak nothing of it until I have answers from the wizard. I will tell the others in due time."  
Balin nodded quickly, relieved to have escaped the majority of his king's ire, and Thorin released his grip, striding off to his own pony, already tacked and loaded with supplies. He spied several loaves, rich amber in colour, tucked in between flasks and waterskins. Who had been carrying this extra food? The Skin-changer?

No, that bear was speaking with Gandalf now. He had been before them. And neither could Gandalf have brought them. He hadn't carried anything out of the homestead, like the bear, save for his staff and sword.

The hard grip on his shoulder drew away his attention. Beside him stood that Skin-changer, levelling his gaze, filled with barely-dammed anger at the son of Thráin.

"Remember this message well, Dwarf." The wild man growled, barely a hair away from a true roaring bear's. "Thrice the sea crashes against the cliffs under the Mountain."

Thorin bristled, shrugging the hand off his shoulder, and held his head high. He was not a messenger. Certainly not to someone like this.

"Let us delude ourselves and assume I will carry it." Thorin bit out. "Who would you have me deliver it to?"

Swift came his reply, a fierce growl that passed bears and encroached the speech of something else.

"The one that is not who he seems."

* * *

Green was the plain that Eragon left in his wake. But in his haste, for all he saw they could have been desert sand, dry and dusty, or parched earth, cracked like old men's lips. Through the soles of his boots, Eragon felt the ground; how it gave under each step, the damp earth sucking at his feet like mud; slowing him, trapping him, while his Saphira flew only further and further away.

A strange sight it would make to a viewer; an elf, with hair cut short and a chin darkened with stubble, dressed in leathers, skin deathly pale and visage gaunt, and armed with nought but a simple knife; more befitting a hunter than one of the Elder Folk.

And his only watchers were the birds in the sky.

The healthy stalks blurred past his view, striking him once in a while on hands or cheek, whilst animals at the forest's edge raised their heads, sticking close to the shade of the arching boughs.

Eragon, heedless, barrelled on, eyes watching the treeline for the gate Gandalf had mentioned. He knew just how far Mirkwood laid its leafy fingers, from the Grey Mountains north to the Realm of Dreams to the south. Near two-hundred leagues; even by horse, he would be too slow, and Saphira would pass beyond his mind's eye. He had to go through.

* * *

"There would normally be a long and winding tale, before you could understand why Eragon joined us, Thorin." Gandalf murmured. "It is one you should hark to with attentive ears."

Thorin scowled from his place atop the pony, his face turned out of the wind to his left, by which the wizard rode.

"You have stalled this conversation too long Gandalf. A league have gone by, and you have not yet spoken a word of him."

The grey-cloaked mage sighed once again, and began fishing around for something in his pockets. He withdrew a roll of yellowed parchment, which he handed over to Thorin.

Grunting, the dwarf rolled it out. On it, in black ink, lay a map; great plains and forests in the north, mountains in the west and south. A desert of massive proportions dominated the centre of the landmass. Across it was dotted black diamonds, labelled by dwarven runes, with some of the strangest names he had seen. Were they even names? One read ' _Mthgtthu_ ', and one to the south read ' _Yngndtiu';_ another read ' _Zingndtch Ubng',_ and yet another he couldn't even understand.

"What farce is this, Gandalf?" Thorin growled, eyeing the wizard irascibly. It was one of his tricks, for sure. Not even that. It seemed like a joke a child would play. "Even for you, this is in poor taste."

"No farce at all." Gandalf grumbled, leaning over in the saddle slightly to point at the north-western range, drawing his finger slowly up to a small valley, above which sat a name.

"This is Eragon's homeland. Alagaësia." Thorin grunted. To him, the word was just a string of sounds, something like ' _Igiminddthi'_ ; not even close to what the wizard had said. Gandalf met Thorin's eyes dead on, a flame of curiosity, burdened with sorrow, burning in his gaze. "And nowhere upon the circle of Arda, Middle-earth or otherwise, will you find it." Here he paused slightly, and tapped a name on the map, just below that. "I would ask you suspend your mistrust of this tale for but a while, Thorin, so that I might make clear it is not a work of fiction."

The dwarf grunted, clearly unimpressed, and peered closer anyway. Curiosity, at times, is stronger than some deem it, and more than a few have suffered for that mistake. Thorin just hoped it wouldn't be him in this case.

"And this? My eyes see nonsense. D…i…ng…Dingpikhigg?"

"From what Eragon has told me, it is pronounced Carvahall."

"Carvahall?" Thorin questioned, looking askance at the wizard. "Is that some sort of castle? A stronghold?"

Gandalf, despite himself, chuckled.

"No, no, nothing so fine. Just a small, simple farming village. It was on the way to nowhere, really, and the only travellers they would receive were traders in the spring."

Thorin snorted and gestured to the woods east of it, and the names that littered it like twigs on the forest floor.

"And these? The realm of Wood-folk, I would hazard, so close to its borders? With only a lake between them? There must have been at least one elf that wandered too far past his borders."

Gandalf's flighty humour evaporated, quick as mist in the morning sun, and his chapped lips pressed into a firm line.  
"It may seem that way, Thorin, son of Thráin, but it is not." He drew a deep breath and took a small swig from his waterskin. "This land, as you see it here, was not always so." His finger trailed southwards, to the coast. "Here, you see a separate kingdom. I find them quite similar to the Haradrim of the Hitherlands, if you are familiar with that particular race."

Thorin was not as well-travelled as Gandalf, but rumours of dark-skinned wanderers south of Gondor would sometimes come from the merchants they escorted, especially mannish merchants.

"I know of them." He said quietly. "But this tells me nothing. If this truly is Eragon's homeland, and not a lie, then why does he walk among us, in Middle-earth?"

"That tale is Eragon's alone to tell, Thorin Oakenshield." Gandalf rebuked, eyes alight with faint anger. "There are a great many things you must understand first."

The dwarf prince was not cowed in the slightest, but his face twisted something fierce, a venomous scowl adorning it.

"So, if I must understand them, Gandalf, pray tell, and withhold them not from me!"

Gandalf's own face set into a scowl, and he straightened his back, gazing off into the distance. Thorin watched as he looked out on the plains and the grass, right hand on his staff and left on the reins.

After a minute, Thorin was convinced Gandalf would talk no more, and pocketed the map; although he withheld judgement, it piqued his curiosity just how exactly, a map of men, in a foreign land, used the runes of dwarves in such a peculiar language.

"There was a war."

The dwarf's eyes flickered over to Gandalf, and he guided his pony back over to the wizard.

"If there is one thing I must tell you first, Thorin, it is this; magic runs rampant in Eragon's land. It is a fickle thing, as I understand it; governed chiefly by will. Elves are among the pinnacle of those who can wield it." Thorin saw a faint smile tug at the wizard's lips. "Though there were a few dwarves well versed in the art."

"And dare I ask…" Thorin sighed, for he knew he would not be well pleased with the answer. "What of the drakes?"

"Dragons in Alagaësia, as you have seen, are very different from those of Middle-Earth." Gandalf continued unheeded. "Saphira is perhaps one of the most beautiful members of their race, or so Eragon told me."  
Thorin found himself nodding unbidden. The dragon's scales, unlike Smaug's, were indeed more radiant. Smaug was dull; scratched and clawed was his armour, sucking the light from the air. If he could have but one of those blue scales, it would make any piece of dull iron worth a king's ransom.

"I would not advise trying, Thorin." Gandalf warned, as he had seen the look on the dwarf prince's face. "The dragons take great pride in their appearance. Even stealing one scale would be tantamount to cutting your own beard."

Gandalf's faint smile widened as he saw Thorin's free hand twitch, almost certainly towards his chest.

"The dragons were proud and strong, and above all, intelligent and cunning."

"Is that why the blasted wyrm nearly singed my beard?" Thorin asked sourly, setting his sight back on the treeline. Gandalf's merriment just deepened the creases on his forehead.

"Aye, aye." The wizard chuckled. "Saphira has had dealings with dwarves previously, and they said much the same."

"And Eragon? What is his connection to the drake?"

Gandalf's laughter ceased, and Thorin glanced over expectantly.

"In all living creatures, there exists a spirit. The Elves call it _'fëa'_ , and the body ' _hröa_ '. It is the way of _fëar_ to stay within their _hröar_ , and it cannot leave." Gandalf grasped Thorin's shoulder firmly, staring deep into Thorin's eyes. "Eragon's _fëa_ is fused to Saphira's."

Thorin, son of Thráin, sat still upon his pony, frozen in that instant.

He was familiar with the soul; it was a common concept among the dwarves of Erebor. In marriage, they believed that the souls of husband and wife stayed together, even in death.

He could understand that. Marriage was uncommon, with so few female dwarves born. But _fused_? And to a dragon, of all things? It was ludicrous!

"As if I would believe such a claim." Thorin spat, pulling Gandalf's hand off his shoulder.

"It is the truth!" Gandalf parried vehemently. "He chases her, not because she is a dragon, or because he seeks blood for a betrayal. To Eragon, Saphira is his life, and his death."

"And what would happen to him?" Thorin challenged. "Suppose that I believe you, and that what you say is true. Tell me this: what would happen to Eragon if the dragon died?"

"A torture you can hardly conceive of." Gandalf replied gravely, his bushy brows painting shadows on his eyes. "No reprieve, no rest. A torn soul is a wound which never heals, never scars. More than one has been driven to madness for it. Dragon Rider, or otherwise."

Thorin said nothing to reply. He returned his attention to the land rushing past him, the wind hissing in his ear.

He could hear it laughing at him.

* * *

Sunset over Imladris was always a wonderful sight. Softly, the light would ghost down the mountainside, suffusing and reflecting; tree, rock and river painted orange and vibrant.

Many a traveller remarked upon the sight, and others besides. Each said much the same thing. Even Elendil, so, so very many years ago, when darkness encroached and the very last embers of a fire joined together in defiance.

Elrond, Lord of Imladris, the son of Eärendil, remembered many things. Many people, in many places, many times.

He remembered a childhood, so, so far distant. His father's face was a blur, and little could he remember of those early days. His mother was alike in that, a flash of sable hair. Fleeting.

From that time, apart from his parents and brother, he recalled little. Just, every once in a while, he recalled a light.

Like starlight and sunlight, it was, warm and welcome. It lit up his mother's face, peeling away the darkness in her eyes and tresses, and they seemed to glow themselves with such grace, like the glimmer of a raven's wings in the moonlight, and her skin would be like alabaster, unblemished and lustrous.

Then came the sons of Fëanor, spiriting he and his brother away. And then, for such a small time after, was Maglor.

He had been a fair warden, in the early days. And after that, when the oath-sworn Ñoldorin grew fond of the pair of them, life almost seemed normal again. Oft they would wander Beleriand, Maglor watching them as they went, like a father would. As Eärendil had.

And there ended the First Age. He remained in Lindon, and watched his brother lead the race of Men from afar. Elves came and elves went, and he watched. Many a sunrise, and many a sunset, like this one.

Under the rushing of the river, the Elf-lord heard footsteps ascending to the overlook, the marble under his hand yellowed like topaz as the sun sank ever lower.

"He has been here, has he not?"

Elrond sighed, and the circlet on his brow felt heavy. Just thinking about Eragon made his soul restless. Not a day after he and Saphira had departed, Elrond was struck by another vision. Once, not so long ago, he had glimpsed Eragon's face, though the Lady Galadriel had seen more than he.

But he had seen things that night. Terrible, terrible things. The heavens wept blood and the world had cracked in two. Darkness oozed through the jagged tears and covered the grassy plains and the mountains. And then, he had looked down at his hands and seen his ring burn bright, the same as in his memories. And then he had awoken, racked with shivers in his bed, while the ghost of a whisper to his ear threw him back to his dear Celebrían.

"He has." Elrond replied neutrally, turning to face Glorfindel. "How did you know?"

"The birds sang it on our way back to Imladris." The golden-haired Ñoldorin returned. " 'One of the chosen has crossed the sea and walks under our boughs.' they trumpet." Glorfindel's bright eyes softened. "It was like nothing I have heard since Valinor under the Two Trees."

Elrond gave the other Elf-Lord a faint smile.  
"It was a great deal quieter after they left, I will admit. Though I would wish to speak with Saphira again. She was a wonderful riddle-maker."

Glorfindel's laugh echoed through the valley and down to the river.

"Your sons seemed to enjoy crossing their blades against his."

"It was a rousing match." Elrond agreed distantly. "Although his duel with the dwarven twins made for better amusement."

Elrond let silence permeate between the two of them, before he stepped away from the balcony and down to the passageways, Glorfindel at his shoulder.

What message did the Lady Galadriel have for you, Glorfindel?" Elrond asked, not turning back to look at his companion. He had something to find. Although he hoped he would not.

"She spoke of something that was to come." The Elf-lord said, tone grave. "She has seen something terrible, yet wonderful."

Though Elrond's pace did not falter, there was little he could do to abate the deep-seated uneasiness in him.

Foresight was a fickle power. At once it showed things that could be, but inevitably did. No one being could see all ends, but the end that life would travel to could be found hidden, somewhere within them. And Elrond almost felt he had been given it, that night past.

"Should I hazard she saw what I did?"

"That must depend on what you saw." Glorfindel replied levelly. "But the Lady spoke of bloody rain and seas of tar. And then a light she had not seen for two Ages."

"Then we saw much the same." Elrond sighed, his feet already carrying him under a canopy and down to the lower levels of his home. "What did the Lady make of it?"

Glorfindel remained dishearteningly quiet, and his silence did nothing to make Elrond feel less ill at ease.

The sunset was very nearly over, and less and less of the orange marble passed them by, melting down into pillars of shadow, like fountains of ink. And although torches were slowly being lit, sparse dots of light flaring up out of nothing, it seemed to do little to combat the shadowy folds around each corner and in each alcove.

And, as the two rounded the corner into a shaded room, with the statue of a king and his broken sword as its centrepiece, total silence fell. Not even a whisper on the wind or through the earth. And, tucked away on a table in a small corner of the balcony, one little dwarven ring had been split down the middle, its four bands scattered about the table in halves.

* * *

 **Umm... read into it all you like, I guess?**

 **Ouch. I don't think this was entirely expected. Or was it? I have no idea what you guys thought was going to happen. Either way, I found it interesting to fill out different character's views on our main character.**

 **Oh, and if you're wondering why Eragon's map makes no sense to Thorin, but he can still read it, cross-reference the Cirth runes and the Alagaësian dwarven runes. You'll find an odd surprise.**

 **Let's hope the next chapter comes out soon!**


End file.
